


Best Laid Plans

by mamishka



Series: Fallen [3]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angels, BAMF!John, Changelings, Christianity, Fae & Fairies, Fallen Angels, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Story: The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans, Wingfic, angel!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 97,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamishka/pseuds/mamishka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson… </p><p>This is the third story  in the Fallen series. One should read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/226432/chapters/343087">Fallen</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/269858/chapters/425845">Invisible Bonds</a> first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;)</p><p> </p><p>  <b>This work is privately owned. Recs and reviews receive never-ending thanks, but I ask that you do not post the actual contents elsewhere or use them without permission.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At last, it's finally here! Many thanks to you all for your patience and support in waiting for this story! I hope that you enjoy it.
> 
> My plan is to update once a week barring any Real Life(tm) complications that decide to plague either me or my betas.
> 
> And speaking of betas, let me give a grateful shout out to my wonderful beta writeaddict and my awesome britpicker aranel_parmadil. Thank you both for all your excellent help! :D
> 
> And now, on with the show!

They were pinned down. Gunfire and IED's exploding all around them and although they are firing back, one thing is clear: they are going to have to make a run for better cover. The slight dip in the rough earth and the stunted scrub brush in front of a small rock outcropping is not enough to keep them sheltered for long. Thank God the advance team is on their way back. They will be able to give them some cover fire to withdraw to a more strategic location. Until then John is a soldier, not a medic, taking careful aim rather than indulging in indiscriminate firing. And it seems to be working. He can tell that he has forced at least a few of the Taliban shooting at them to scramble back and look for better cover themselves.

There is a breath of a relief when the com in his ear crackles and a voice says, “Alright boys, cavalry's here. Get your arses out of there.” And sure enough, the sound of cover fire is heard to the right, redirecting the assault on their position as the Taliban shift and hurry to face this new threat and begin firing back. 

Speaking into his own unit, Captain John Watson barks, “Alright you heard him. Go, go, go!” 

Surging to their feet, his unit scrambles for safer ground, keeping their bodies as low as possible while the advance unit gives them as much fire cover as they can.

Their attackers, however, are not distracted for long. A few shots rattle out towards them, pinging off rocks and kicking up spurts of dirt by their feet as they run. It was only a question of time and bad luck before one of the team behind John cries out and goes down hard. The others falter for only a second before John reminds them, “Keep moving, that's an order!” just as he spins around and dives down to the ground, grabbing the fallen soldier and dragging him over to a slight rise in the ground. Pitiful cover, but it is all they have. 

Pulling out his medical kit with fast and efficient fingers, John huffs to his soldier, “It's alright, you're alright. I've got you. I'm going to fix this. I'm going to fix everything.”

He turns the bleeding man over and goes utterly still. Blood is pouring out from beneath his armour, the bullet apparently piercing his left shoulder. The soldier's blue eyes are blank and glazed, staring up at John without recognition, without any sign of life. John's hands start to shake as he tears off his gloves, one hand snaking down to search for a pulse at the downed soldier's throat.

Everything is heightened to an unbearable level. His heart is pounding in his chest. John can feel the heat of the Afghanistan sun beating down on him, the sweat slithering down his neck and face, his uniform clinging to him beneath his armour, the heat of the earth beneath his knees, the sound of gunfire all around him, slowed down to an impossible rate from the crack of the initial trigger being pulled to the whistle of the bullet through the air to shrill angry pings as it ricochets off a rock. The sky above is a brilliant shade of blue, the blood swirling around his knees a horrific shade of red. Somehow he registers and sees all of this despite the fact that his eyes do not move away from the face of the dead man he crouches beside. Trembling fingers press against warm, sweaty flesh, searching for a pulse that he knows he will not find, but is compelled to search for anyway.

In his ear he can hear the scratchy sound of his unit calling to him. “Captain Watson. Captain John Watson, sir! Captain Watson!” But he can't react. He can't reply. All he can do is whisper to the man below him, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I didn't know, I didn't realize what he meant! I would never...”

Open eyes the colour of the ocean suddenly flicker and snap upward, staring into John's face as the mouth of the dead man, of the true Captain John H. Watson, woodenly replies in dull and weary tones, “Non satis non scrire. _You_ killed me.” Those pupils suddenly enlarge, black overwhelming the blue until they are naught but a hollow void - a great sucking maw of emptiness within them, determined to devour John into nothingness. “You stole my life. You stole my _soul_!” 

John opens his mouth to plead with the man he has so desperately wronged, whispering, “I didn't know, I didn't mean to, what I can do? I'll do anything to make this right.”

“You can die.”

Words are prophecy as a bullet explodes through John's left shoulder in turn, throwing him back upon the sand. Everything becomes simplified in that moment. Everything is pain and light as he bleeds out, bleeding out, the sand and his flesh so very red beneath that impossibly blue sky....

John lurches upward with a ragged gasp, right hand clutching his left shoulder, his body trembling uncontrollably. Sweat coats his flesh, his bedding sticking to him as he shudders and closes his eyes, folding into himself in the wake of the brutal nightmare.

A dream, yes - and yet so much more than a dream. It was reality. He had done the unthinkable. He had robbed a man of not just his life, but also his afterlife. Yes, technically he was not the one who killed John Watson in Afghanistan. He did not pull the trigger or cause the bullet to tear through his flesh. He did not abandon John to bleed out, alone, on the hard rough ground. But he did take his life and steal his history. His friends and family had no opportunity to mourn their loss. John Watson's memory was not honoured for his duty to his country, nor mourned by his loved ones. They all thought he was still in and of the world, if estranged from them.

But this was nothing compared to the fact that it was now clear to John that he had stolen Watson's immortal soul. Reaching over to the bedside table, he picks up the small urn of ashes that contain all that is left of John H. Watson, a single tear escaping and trailing unbidden down his cheek as he whispers, “I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm so sorry....”

The last two weeks had been brutal. John was wracked with guilt after Tup's innocent comment at the hospital. Angels didn't have souls. John had a soul. There was only one explanation that he could think of, and it was unthinkable. As a result he had been haunted and grim in the aftermath of the kidnapping. To everyone else his reaction had been understandable. After all, he had been attacked, imprisoned, and beaten. Forced to watch his sister die. These were the sorts of things that would make even a perfectly sane man crack, let alone one who had returned from the war with an on-record assessment of PTSD. 

But Sherlock wasn't everyone else. Sherlock was Sherlock, and he knew that there was something else going on. Something that John wouldn't talk about. He would give John a thorough study every morning when he came down to breakfast and every time he became wrapped up in his thoughts and wracked with guilt. It had gotten so bad that John announced that he was going to go look for work. The excuse was a lack of money, his pension not enough to cover half the rent and groceries, but the real reason was to get out of the flat. To get away from Sherlock's analytic gaze.

In the end it was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he could relax and let his guard down in the company of strangers, a curse because he was yet again using something that he had stolen from John Watson - his medical expertise. He knew that if he was going to remain on earth, if he was to continue to protect Sherlock, then he had no choice but to push on. Somehow he was going to have to find absolution for the sin that he had committed. But he couldn't ask God for forgiveness, for he was Fallen. And he had no idea of how he could ever forgive himself.

Still, he had to function. That was the human thing to do. Get up. Move on. 

Rising to his feet, he finds a towel to wipe the sweat from his body and glances at the clock before remembering that he doesn't have a shift today at the clinic. Just as well, really. He already feels completely wrung out. Right now he needs a hot cup of tea and a warm shower. Neither will fix his problem, but they are comforting nonetheless, and this morning he will take what little comfort he can get.

Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, towel slung over his shoulder, John pads his way downstairs and opens the door to the living room, and that's where he finds them.

Sherlock and Mycroft are sitting across from one another, not talking. Well, at least not audibly. The air of the room is thick with the fog of their unspoken argument, each brother conversing with the other through minute glances, tics of the lip or brow, a flicker of fingers or a shifting within their chairs. For the first time in what feels like a very, very long time, John is shaken out of his depression, eyes flickering from Sherlock to Mycroft and back to Sherlock again. He makes sure not to glance toward Mycroft's angel who is sitting on the floor between the two brothers with a look of long-born regret upon his features. He can empathize with that look all too well.

For a moment John is transfixed, watching the silent argument continue until both men suddenly turn and stare at him. It is difficult enough at times to keep his guard up. With both of the Holmes men looking at him, John feels utterly stripped, as if his every secret has been laid bare beneath the power of their regard. It is Mycroft who speaks first.

“Perhaps you could talk some sense into my brother, John.”

The words tangle in his brain, disconnected and without direction or purpose. The abruptness startles him as it has nothing to do with the detailed study that each man is forcing upon his person at the moment. As such, John sputters slightly and turns to Mycroft asking, “What?”

With a hefty sigh, Mycroft rumbles on as if he hadn't heard the question, “He can be so very unreasonable at times. It's not like I'm asking him to work for me, I've long given up on that pursuit...” His words at this point are interrupted by a disparaging snort and a muttered “Hardly,” from Sherlock, which Mycroft smoothly coasts over. “...this would simply be a one time favour and of _great_ national importance. And, more importantly to you, I'm sure, it would not be the least bit boring.”

“So you say, but I really don't have the time, Mycroft,” Sherlock loftily claims, his hands steepled in front of him even as his gaze remains affixed upon John. “Besides, we both know the truth. This is just a carrot you're dangling in front of me. Oh just this once, Sherlock. Oh, it's for national security, Sherlock. It's such a fascinating case, Sherlock, you're the only one who can solve it.” His head turns back to Mycroft as he asserts, “I am not a child you can wheedle with offers of sweets and late night telly.”

“That remains to be seen...”

Before Sherlock can retort again, Mycroft raises his voice and inquires, “Still having nightmares about your sister's incident?” John's spine stiffens, his eyes narrow, and he's about to retort when Sherlock cuts him off.

“It was the war this time.”

Mycroft looks at John again in a way that John very much does not care for before concurring reluctantly, “Ahhh, yes, of course...”

Gritting his teeth, John glares at the pair of them, angry that they're dissecting him like two boys with some sort of insect, for no other reason than because they can. Giving a terse nod, John confirms, “The war,” his hackles rising further as Sherlock's expression shifts blatantly toward smugness at having won one over his brother.

Rising up from his seat, Mycroft proffers a file to Sherlock who simply stares at him coolly before reaching over to occupy his hands with his violin, elegantly long fingers tuning the strings. For a just a second there is a flicker of what looks like uncertainty in Mycroft's gaze before he simply turns and begins to give his oration to John, passing the file over to him in lieu of Sherlock.

“Andy Cadogan West, known as “Westie” by his friends was found beside the train tracks at Battersea with his head smashed in.”

The quick shift in topic throws John off again and despite his irritation with the two of them he finds himself reaching out to take the file from Mycroft's fingers, asking hesitantly, “So... he jumped in front of the train?”

“That would be the logical assumption....”

By the way Mycroft's voice trails off, John realizes instantly that while logical, it is nothing more than an assumption, and a poor one at that. With a huff of breath, he wonders what it is about the Holmes brothers that one must coax them into speaking plainly at times, even as he feeds Mycroft the requisite, “But....?”

A very small smile touches Mycroft's lips, as if John was an unintelligent child trying to be bright. Rather than answer the question he echoes, “But?”

With a look of annoyance, John huffs, “Well, if that were it, you wouldn't be here, would you? So clearly it's something more. Something quite a bit more if it has you off your schedule and here at Sherlock's flat. Especially since you know he would refuse to take a case from you if you offered in a completely locked room and covered in blood.”

Sherlock snorts again, but this time it's a chuffed sound rather than a disdainful one.

“The MOD is working on a new defence system. The Bruce Partington Program – and some very delicate information thereof was on a Prometheus drive.”

“A what?”

“Really, Mycroft, giving away government secrets to anyone and everyone?” Sherlock drolls dryly.

“Dr. Watson is not 'everyone', and since he'll be working on this case with you, no doubt...”

“No.”

“...it doesn't seem imprudent to explain the matter to him.”

“And again,” Sherlock snaps, “I. Said. NO.” Each word of his displeasure is plucked out upon the strings of the violin in his hands.

Shaking his head, John waves a hand to regain their attention before inquiring more directly, ”What precisely is a Prometheus drive?”

Ironically, it's Sherlock who explains the matter to John with a melodramatic sigh. “Ohhhh, just a little something Mycroft _stole_...”

“Bor-rowed,” Mycroft chimes in with a slight sing-song tone imbued into the word.

“... from me. A device I invented as a child when I was experimenting with mixing magic and technology. You are familiar with the story of Prometheus, I'm sure?”

Nodding his head, John folds his arms over his chest casually, noting, “Of course, what schoolboy doesn't? Prometheus, one of the few Titans to side with Zeus against Cronus and the other Titans. According to Greek mythology he was the creator of mankind. In an effort to save his creations, he stole fire from Mount Olympus and gifted it to mankind.”

One brow lifts as Mycroft twirls the end of his umbrella upon the floor, noting, “That's rather impressive, even by schoolboy standards. Few tend to remember that Prometheus was a Titan.”

“What can I say,” John offers in return, a brief feral sort of grin touching upon his features as he reports in all honesty, “I was always interested in comparative religions.”

There's a small spark in Mycroft's eye, as if John were his apple and deemed delicious for being both knowledge and forbidden fruit. It's a look that John decidedly does not care for. “Fine. So the Prometheus drive is what then exactly?”

“It's a drive, like a thumb drive, though it doesn't look like one at all. It's for holding data, specifically secret data. But it's encoded and protected by magic as well the usual mundane human forms of encryption and password protection.” Sherlock's shoulders shrug as he notes, “It was how I dealt with remembering things before I finished building my Mind Palace. I wanted a way to be able to copy and store important information, but not have Mycroft be able to have access to it.”

“I see. So there's this Prometheus drive with some terribly secret information on it that has been, what, lost?”

“Stolen.”

One brow lifts as John counters, “That's not terribly secure.”

Another snort of amusement from Sherlock, utterly unquelled by Mycroft's glare of annoyance. “It is simply a copy, but as I said, it contains very... valuable information for certain parties.”

“So secret then?” Another unamused look from Mycroft and John amends, “Top secret.”

Mycroft's eyes narrow, is smile thin as he concurs, “Very.”

Looking away from John, Mycroft narrows his formidable stare upon his brother. “The belief is that Westie stole the Prometheus drive and we need to make sure that it gets recovered before it falls into... the wrong hands.”

Whenever Mycroft starts talking Sherlock idly plucks a discordant note from the violin his hands. A form of tuning out Mycroft, it would seem. His brother's expression darkens further as he leans in and rumbles, “Don't make me order you, Sherlock...”

A sideswipe of Sherlock's feline regard proves just how unmoved he is by the empty threat, muttering under his breath, “I'd like to see you try. “

“Yes, well, think it over.”

Turning, Mycroft reaches out his hand to John and before he can think better of the action John finds himself shaking it in return. Shit. The handshake is firm and once his hand has been taken he finds that Mycroft is unwilling to let it go. The moment is an uncomfortable one, with Mycroft staring at him intently, as if willing his secrets to bubble up to the surface. Mycroft is a terribly powerful Sensitive, but if his grasp and stare yield up any clues as to John's true nature, his face gives nothing away. Instead he smiles, not a kind smile or a friendly smile, but the sort of smile a snake might give its mesmerized prey - if snakes smiled. If that wasn't bad enough, he adds with confidence, “See you very soon,” before leaving the flat.

Sherlock is now making quite the racket on his violin with the bow, as if playing the unpleasant and discordant music will hasten his brother's departure. And perhaps it does, for after a short while they both hear the door below close and Sherlock finishes his impromptu musical overture with a vexed flourish.

John heavily sits down in his chair and ponders the matter for a moment before lifting his gaze to Sherlock and asking, “Is it really worth it?”

Adding rosin to his bow, Sherlock doesn't even bother to return his gaze as he blithely replies, “Is what worth it?”

“What Mycroft said,” John explains waving his hands in the air to try to encompass all that Mycroft told them. “About these plans and national security. Is a spot of sibling rivalry really worth the risk of not recovering these plans?”

Glancing up from his task, Sherlock narrows his pale regard upon John for a moment before suggesting, “If you think it's so important why don't you take it then?”

“What?” 

Rising up from his seat, Sherlock places his violin upon his shoulder and lifts the bow to play a few notes that actually follow a melody for a change, pointing out “Come now, John. You know my methods, you've seen how I work. I think it's time to push you out of the nest, let you test your wings.”

John feels himself bristling and stiffening all at the same time. The comment about the wings hits a little too close to home and Sherlock's disregard for the importance of the matter reflects all the other ways in which Sherlock's disregard for others, well, bothers him.

“Mycroft seemed to think it was very important. He said it was a matter of national security.”

“Yes, well, he would say that, wouldn't he?”

“Sherlock. You yourself said he held more than just a minor position in the government. That he in fact, was the government? So couldn't he be quite genuine in his concern about this, this Prometheus drive?”

Mmmmmm.” Dropping the bow to one side, Sherlock turns around to consider John. His gaze has gone introspective, staring more through John than at him, as if divining the secrets that lay beneath his flesh. After a moment of this study he rumbles, “In this case, your talents might be of greater use than my own.”

A full minute goes by before John finds himself asking in utter astonishment, “W-what?”

Turning his head, he lifts the bow once more and draws a solitary, discontented sigh from the instrument. “This is Mycroft, rubbing my nose in it once again.”

“Rubbing your nose into what?”

“In the fact that he can See and I cannot. He's eternally going on about how we would make the perfect team. He, the 'brain', me the 'brawn', if you can believe it.” His bow lifts to wave away John's retort before he can even start it, clarifying, “In magical terms, of course. He would See the situation and then I would act upon it. This clearly isn't a matter of national security. At least, not in any way that the Queen or nation would understand or recognise.”

“Explain.”

Cutting the air with this bow, Sherlock twirls and begins to pace the room. “When I said that Mycroft is the government, I was not exaggerating. His views and advice are taken at the very highest of levels. But what most people don't know, not even those in the highest ranking position in England, is that Mycroft runs a secret division of the government within the government. A division that deals with magical threats to the safety of the country and indeed, his over-inflated ego would have you believe, the world.”

“Ah.” Yes, that would make sense on multiple levels. Mycroft, even as a child, was always making connections and bringing people under his influence - even when they weren't 'people' precisely. “So this department, the MOD?”

“Magical Operations Department,” Sherlock helpfully supplies.

“Right, the Magical Operations Department - this is where something of vital importance was stolen.”

“Precisely, which is why you would actually be the best person to investigate.”

“Me? Why me? Look, Sherlock, I appreciate your faith in my ability to do what you do...”

Sherlock cuts John off with a disparaging huff and another slash of his bow through the air between them. “This has nothing to do with you being able to adequately perform my methods and everything to do with the fact that you are one of the most powerful Sensitives other than Mycroft that I know. And if Mycroft wasn't such a lazy git who hates legwork, he would do the job himself. But he doesn't stoop to dirtying his hands. But you, you can see what I cannot.”

“But.... then we should work together on this, Sherlock...”

Sherlock's harsh, “No!” surprises John, his hands raising up in confusion as he starts to counter, “But why?” when his words are cut off by Sherlock's mobile ringing. The consulting detective holds up a hand to John while answering it simply. “Sherlock Holmes.” There is a moment of silence and then he smiles and replies, “Of course. I'll be there right away.”

Putting away the phone, his hand drops as he answers John's question. “Because while you've been working at your locum job, I've been working on some very important research and I can't take the time to stop working on that just to run around doing Mycroft's dirty work for him. I need you to do it.”

“He said it was of national importance, Sherlock.” John frowns as he watches his friend put away his violin only to turn about and pull on his coat and scarf, clearly intending to leave the premises without him. 

“Ah, yes, I should have expected that from you. Loyal to the core, for Queen and Country and all that...”

“No, it's not just “all that”, but do you really think now is the time to ignore him, do research when....”

“I'm not ignoring it though, am I?” Sherlock turns around, his pale gaze catching John's as something almost tender shifts over his features. “After all, I'm putting in my best man onto it, aren't I?” He gives John a wink as he opens the door and departs, his footsteps light and quick upon the stairs, the sound of the front door opening and closing the final punctuation to his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Non satis non scrire** \- "To not know is not enough"  
>  If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early... just cause I can! Woot!
> 
> Just a quick note that this story is going to be going off in some unexpected directions because unlike Fallen and Invisible Bonds, which were structured around the events of A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker, Best Laid Plans is _not_ structured around  The Great Game, but just around a small part of it, which is the say The Bruce Partington Plans. As a result things are going to diverge into new territory. Just thought I would give you all a heads up on that.
> 
> Huge thanks to writeaddict for beta'ing and aranel_parmadil for britpicking!

It feels strange not following after Sherlock. John has spent the past 32 years following Sherlock constantly and even now in this human form he tends to be with him more than not. It almost hurts not to be invited along, which is ironic considering how John has been trying to find ways to not be underfoot 24/7, to not give Sherlock too much fodder to consider in the aftermath of Harriet's death and resurrection. With a heavy sigh, he pads barefoot into the kitchen, determined to continue along with his previous morning plan – hot tea and a hot shower. 

Putting the kettle on, John pulls down his RAMC mug and after a moment of consideration fishes around until he finds a shot glass and sets that on the counter as well for Tuppence's tea. Sure enough, it isn't long before he hears some rustling in the living room and then the sound of scrabbling as something makes its way up the cabinet, using the drawer knobs as an impromptu ladder.

“Morning, Tup,” he greets the Fae dispiritedly as he rummages around and pulls down a tin of English Breakfast. “Care for a cuppa?” 

He hears the sound of small palms clapping together as the tiny Fae makes his way over and chirps, “Don't mind if I do, don't mind if I do.” Hopping up on a jar of strawberry jam, Tuppence idly thumps his heels against the glass as he leans back on his palms and stares up as John putters about the kitchen, preparing tea and toast.

“Yeh 'ad another nightmare last night,” he observes. 

John simply nods.

“Same one then?”

“Same one.”

Scratching his beneath his chin, Tup mutters, “It don't mean naught, y'know. It's jest a dream. Jest yeh feelin' guilty.”

The small Fae jumps when John slams the kettle down against the counter and then hisses as hot water sloshes out and lands on his hand. Cursing under his breath, he steps over to the sink and turns on the cold water, putting his hand beneath it. “Right then. No bother at all. I'll just get over that overnight, shall I? It's nothing to be ashamed of, after all. Happens all the time, right? I mean, steal a man's soul, that's what, like running a traffic light is it?”

“Wingless....”

“No, not even as bad as running a light. More like using a mobile while driving, or forgetting to put your seatbelt on...”

“Wingless, I dinnae mean....”

Turning on the Fae, John snaps, “I stole John Watson's _soul_ , Tup. His _immortal soul_. I - I can't - there isn't...” His unburnt hand waves in the air until, with a huff of breath, his whole body just crumples in on itself as he leans against the counter and hangs his head against his forearm, cold water still pouring over the burn.

“You don't understand. You can't understand. You don't have a soul. A soul is meaningless to you. But that was my _duty_ , Tup. My whole purpose, my whole existence, was to help nurture and protect the lives and souls of my wards. I was a Guardian Angel - emphasis on _guard_ , as in 'protect'. I've committed one of the greatest sins that isn't even known to mankind because mankind doesn't have the power to take someone's soul. There is no forgiveness for something like this.”

There's a beat of silence before Tuppence queries blithely, “And?”

His head lifts to stare at Tup, blinking in astonishment as he echoes, “And? Did you actually just say _and_?

Hopping off of the jam jar, Tuppence puts his tiny hands on his furry hips and counters, “Aye, that's exactly wot I said... _And_? I mean, wot are yeh goin' to do about it? Are yeh goin' to lie around and mope and 'ate yerself for the rest of yer now limited life span? Are yeh goin' to flog yerself every night in penance? Are yeh goin' to toil all day and night, doin' good works? Are yeh goin' to fill the tub with 'ot water, 'ave a nice soak and then slit yer wrists because yeh can't forgive yerself for makin' a mistake that wasn't even of yer own makin? Cause even if wot yeh say is true, and we dinnae know that it is, I cannae believe that yer just gonna give up and lay down. Wot about Sherlock? Wot about yer duty?”

Staring at the water streaming over his hand, John finally reaches over to turn off the tap and then dabs the injured digits dry, examining them with a doctor's eye for a moment. Not a serious burn. The pain is already fading just from the cold water. 

“I don't know. I just don't know. I've gone from being a celestial spirit with no understanding or experience of emotions to being a human, with so many emotions bombarding me that I don't know how to handle them all.”

“Feels.”

“What?” 

“Feels. Too many feels.”

John just stares at Tup for a moment before the small Fae looks down at the counter and scuffs his feet against the laminate muttering, “Never mind, jest somethin' I found on the internets.... dinnae matter.”

“Yes. Feels, feelings, whatever you choose to call them I can't just turn them off. I don't know how to. Believe me, there are times that I dearly wish that I could.”

Tup glances up slyly, smiling as he purrs, “But there be other times, yes? Times when 'avin' feels t'aint such an awful thing, nay?”

John can't help the small smile that curves his lips as he concurs, “There are other times.... when I wouldn't give up having emotions for anything... not even to be able to fly again. It's like only being able to see in shades of black and white and then suddenly seeing in brilliant, dazzling colours. Or having no sense of touch and then suddenly being about to feel the wind in your hair, the grass beneath your feet, and water against your skin.” 

“Aye, that be the way of emotions a'right. Like a wild field o'flowers of all different kinds. Aye, some of 'em 'ave thorns and the like, but they all be worth smellin' and pickin' if fer no other reason than to experience 'em all, figure out which to cultivate and which to weed out.” Plopping down onto the counter, Tup pulls his legs up and wraps his skinny arms about his bony knees. “So, wot y'got planned fer the day then, eh?”

Shaking his head, John pours the hot water over his tea strainer and then sets the timer for three minutes before pressing the small of his back against the counter. “I honestly have no idea. Sherlock's gone off to do God knows what, but whatever it is, it doesn't include me. He says research and probably expects that I'll be bored. Truthfully though? I'm a bit grateful. He knows that something is up with me, I can't hide what I'm feeling well enough to fool him.”

“Wingless, 'ate to break it t'yeh, but yeh can't 'ide yer feelin's even if yeh wanted to. They're too new and fresh – stand out on yer face like pimples on a youngin'.”

Wrinkling his nose, John rumbles, “Ta for the support and the visual. But you're right. I need to get this whole thing sorted or at least reach some kind of decision.” Though what verdict would that be? Closure? Censure? Death? Tup was right. What was there that John could do now if his worst fear was reality? Would there be anyway he could find peace with himself? Perhaps there was a way that he could release the soul? Was it like a bird trapped inside the cage of his body, beating its wings desperately in the hopes of breaking free? Or was it more like a transplant, a heart placed inside his chest, its beating rhythm sustaining him. Would tearing it out and freeing it simply result in his death? Could it even be returned or freed?

“Well, then, per'aps this is a good turn of events. Sherlock be busy with 'is research, and you can be busy with yours. 'E needn't know wot you been doin' and iffin' 'e be that drawn up in the,” and here Tup lifts his long fingered hands, making little human quotation marks in the air, “...' _work_ ', then e' won't 'ave no time nor interest in ferrettin' out whatever youse been up to, now does 'e?”

John's gaze turns somber once more as he focuses back on Tup's face. “You're right. This is the perfect time. I need answers, not more questions. I have the next few days off from the clinic and Sherlock is busy with his research. Now is the perfect time to deal with this problem without having to worry about making up excuses for where I've been and what I've been doing.” He nods briskly, a soldier making a call before stating, “Tup. I think it's past time for us to find Cheval and see if we can't have another audience with Eshu.”

Rocking back and forth, Tup's tail flicks from side to side in anxiety. “Are yeh sure that's wot yeh want to be doin'? I mean, aye, if anyone can tell yeh wot 'appened to John Watson's soul it should be 'im, but I dinnae know if yeh really wants to remind 'im that yer still out 'ere, owin' him a debt and all of that...”

His brows lift and then scrunch down as John gives his small friend the most dubious of looks. “Tup. Really. Of all the gods and goddesses, do you honestly think that _Eshu_ would be the one to forget or let a promise of a debt pass him by?”

A twitch of his tail and a quiver of his nose is given before he nods. “Aye,” Tuppence concedes dispiritedly. “If there was ever anyone that wouldna fergit a debt, it would be Eshu. Whup! Well, that settles it then!” Tup scrambles over to the bread bin and with a mighty heave lifts the cover up and open before ducking inside and pulling out a plastic bag of bread..

Watching the tiny Fae, John can't help but smile a little as he asks, “What are you about now then?”

“Well, we can't be makin' demands of a god fer information on an empty stomach now can we? So first we'll 'ave some tea and toast and then you'll be takin' a shower because you look like shite and you t'ain't smellin' like a dainty flower either, that's fer sure. After that, then we'll be off. Need to be well fortified and finely dressed if we be goin' to talk to a god after all, eh?”

*****

Needless to say both human and Fae are more than a little disappointed to arrive at Cheval’s shop only to find it closed up tight. Worse, the interior of it is empty and littered with various bit of debris, indicating that it is not just closed for the end of a business day, but that it had been closed for business for some time now.

“Wu oh... that can't bode well,” mutters Tuppence, his voice muffled from beneath John's jacket as he squirms about to take a better look.

“Great. Well, now what? I don't have access to my usual forms of information, really I don't have access to anything except my own memories and John Watson's, so I have to confess I have no idea where he might be.” 

Peering up at John, Tuppence makes a hrmmming noise before scrambling up and out. “Ere, put me down and lemme see iffin' I can't find meself a way in. There might be more t'find than meets the eye!”

Offering his palm as a surface of transport, John crouches down and lets Tup alight from it, the tiny Fae scurrying around the side of the building and out of sight, looking for some small crevice, pipe, or ventilation shaft, no doubt. John leans against the door frame while he waits, nodding to or ignoring the people walking past who eye him curiously or suspiciously. John hears the soft snick of a lock being undone behind him and waits until the coast is clear before reaching back to turn the doorknob, which gives beneath his grasp. He pivots in place and steps into the closed bar, nearly trampling Tup.

“Oi! Watch where yer goin'!”

“Well, when you're as small as you are, best you watch to make sure you're not beneath someone's feet,” John retorts back. Quickly he draws the blinds on the door and windows to allow them some privacy to case the place. “Okay, let's split up – you're looking for anything that might tell us what happened to Cheval.”

“Righto!”

The bar is in shambles – the booze all gone and little left in its place but a few abandoned glasses, bartending paraphernalia and plenty of rubbish. By the looks of it, someone left quickly and then someone else came and took anything that was worth taking. While there is nothing of value in sight, there are a few knicknacks, clothes and personal items left in the back bedroom. Picking up a small stack of photographs, John sorts through them, noticing Cheval in more than just a few of them. Right. So someone, most likely Cheval, appeared to have been living here for some time and had to leave in a hurry and leave light. John smiles grimly to himself, Sherlock's words from earlier this morning coming back to him as he makes these basic deductions, knowing that if Sherlock were here he would have known not only that Cheval lived here, but also how long he had been here, when he had left, his entire life history, and where he had gone. Still, one out of six wasn't _that_ bad.

Dropping the photos, John reaches out and pulls a nearby curtain from what looks like a cupboard doorway. John is taken aback at first, expecting there to be nothing inside. But this - this is significant and appears to be left untouched, which is unexpected. “Tup, come here a second....”

“I dinnae know Wingless,” comes Tup's high voice from the other room. “T'aint nuthin' 'ere worth a damn that I can see.” The small Fae turns the corner and blinks, whispering, “Corrrrrrr. Now _that's_ somethin'!” Craning his head to look into the closet as well, Tup takes in what John is staring at – a rather elaborate private shrine to Eshu-elegba. There's a set of black and red beads strung into a long necklace laying across the white linen surface; a doll painted in black and red; an offering bowl with what looks like dried blood in it; a blade, also marked by dried blood; and an assortment of veve that have been carved or painted into the wood and walls of the cupboard.

The pair of them draw closer to look at the shrine and Tuppence twiddles his fingers together, looking up at John from his position way down on the floor as he asks, “Ummmm, well now wot are yeh gonna do?” 

“The way I see it, Cheval is gone. He likely left in a hurry. Not sure why, but there's a good chance that maybe he got himself in some trouble, or Eshu did. Could be any number of reasons why he had to move up and out quickly. But he left this here for a reason. Maybe it was an offering that he had to leave behind in order to see something through and he couldn't take it with him as a result. All of this looks handmade, so maybe it wasn't important for him to take it with him? Perhaps he could just start over and make it all again.” Glancing down at the Tup, John asks, “Can you ask your brownie friends to keep their ears open? See if there's any word of where Cheval went? Or, barring that, just get the word out there that we're looking for a rider, tell them that I'm looking to talk to him. I mean, Eshu can be anywhere, he can be anyone.”

Clambering up John's clothes, Tup slips back into his chest pocket nodding. “Oh sure, that won't be a problem, lessin' 'e's not hereabouts no more. But the rest? Technically, yes, we can put the word out there. But I wouldna say it were 'easy' per se. Eshu isn't necessarily interested in just talking to anyone. But we can go to a local Candomble chapel or a Santeria church, leave an offering for 'im, and 'ope that 'e'll be in touch?

“That's an option except for one thing. I don't know any Yoruba or Vodun places of worship, do you?”

Scratching his furry head, Tup purses his lips uncertainly before agreeing, “Yer right. I dinnae. 

Staring down at the altar, John's expression is grim and his tone dark as he muses, “Well, I guess I better leave Eshu a message and an offering here on the off-chance we can't find any better option.”

Glancing at John quizzically, Tup queries, “Just what are yeh gonna leave fer 'im? You dinnae bring anything of value, now did yeh?”

“Just what I always have with me.” Reaching down John picks up the sharp dagger along with the bloodied bowl and carries them both away until he reaches the bar sink. Each are washed carefully and thoroughly before he brings them back to the shrine. 

Tuppence has abandoned John's pocket and is pacing anxiously across his shoulders. “Uhhh, Wingless, yer not _really_ gonna....”

“Yes, I am really gonna,” John replies tersely, rolling up the sleeve of his right arm to bare the tender inner flesh there.

“Ahhhh, are yeh sure that's a good idea, Wingless? Never wise to leave 'air nor blood to be found, that's fer sure...”

“Don't really have a choice, Tup. We've no idea how much longer this altar will be here, but we know in the meanwhile that it's an active place of prayer and sacrifice. I need answers, and I need them now. I can't wait for the off-chance that we'll be able to find Cheval or someone who will carry Eshu for us. So that leaves me and my blood, here and now.

Slipping back into John's pocket, the tiny Fae asks in a soft voice, “Why yer arm, why not yer hand or yer finger?”

“Because it will actually be more trouble for me if I cut my hand or fingers – that will impact my daily movements. But more importantly, the chances that Sherlock will notice that I've cut my arm is far less likely than my hand. An arm is also easier to bandage up in the aftermath and will bleed faster. And, if need be, I can come up with a convenient excuse like cutting it whilst climbing a fence chasing after suspect or some such thing.”

He braces himself for only a moment before making a quick stroke mid-way along his lower arm, making a fist to quicken the flow of the blood as it streams from the cut and drips into the white porcelain bowl, occasionally splattering out to stain the pale linen surrounding it. 

The whole time Tuppence looks dreadfully uncomfortable, peering out over the top of his pocket, but that's of little surprise. Blood, flesh, and hair - all of these have properties that are not unlike knowing someone's real name. The possession of them can give one power over another. The Fae know this and Sherlock knows this; John definitely knows it as well, but sometimes you don't really have a choice in such matters.

“It'll be alright, Tup.”

Glancing up at John again, Tuppence for once in his small life says nothing, but he doesn't have to. His expression says it all.

Once what looks like a reasonable enough amount of blood has been shed, John ties a dubiously clean bar towel around the wound and addresses the altar directly, though he has no idea what to say in such rituals. Hopefully politeness counts for something.

“Hear my call, Eshu-elelegba. I beseech you to meet with me to answer a question regarding the soul of John Watson and myself. Please accept this offering of blood as my invitation and payment. Until then I urgently await you.” Stepping back from the altar, John hopes that will be sufficient for his needs and glances down at Tuppence. “I think that's all we can do here. Shall we move on?”

“Wot will we do now?”

John's forehead crinkles as a soft chirrup mobile has him reaching into his pocket to check the incoming text. His brow creases further in astonishment. “God, Mycroft is texting _me_ now. He must be _desperate_.” Pocketing his phone John stands there a moment, thinking before he muses, “Perhaps the best course of action is to go home, get this properly bandaged, and then go pay Mycroft a visit and see what it is that he wants Sherlock to do. He did say it was a matter of national importance and if the matter is as dire as it sounds, maybe I can get more details and use them to entice Sherlock. Maybe if the case is interesting enough, he'll forget that it comes from his brother. 

“Hah! Good luck wi' that! T'ain't no way Sherlock be doin' any favors fer 'is brother.”

John's lips twist thoughtfully as he murmurs, “Maybe. But then again, maybe not. And until I know more, there's really no telling, now is there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Veve** \- a religious symbol commonly used in Vodou. It acts as a "beacon" for the Loa, and will serve as a loa's representation during rituals.
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sits in the taxi impatiently, watching the streets of London roll by. The driver had given Sherlock, in his fine attire and long coat, a dubious look before heading to the address given, shaking his head as if to say that he didn't care to know what a posh man would be doing in that sort of place. Sherlock simply steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and waits patiently, for once, as the taxi wends its way through the city. He cares less than nothing about what the cabbie might think of him. His mind is focused upon more important questions. Upon their arrival at the abandoned warehouse on Wick Lane he doesn't say a word, just passes over enough money and slips from the vehicle, waiting until it pulls away before looking around. Graffiti abounds, including several abandoned vehicles which have been decorated with strange and occasionally rude caricatures. Slowly Sherlock's lips curve into a satisfied smile as he purrs to himself, “Perfect.”

It really is perfect. Not terribly convenient to get to, but that's what you get when you want an isolated warehouse out in the middle of nowhere. He prowls the perimeter of the building first, taking in its shape and form, the height of the windows and doors, the direction, nodding in turn before a voice interrupts his musings. 

“Is it all you could have wished for and more?”

“Excellent work, Billie, as always,” Sherlock replies without surprise at the diminutive girl who slips down from one of the window-sills with the agile grace of a cat. Her clothes are a mishmash of colours and patterns and layers, mixed together not out of a sense of fashion, but of convenience and availability. She looks tiny and fragile - defenceless - but Sherlock knows better than that. She sticks out her hand, the tips of her thin fingers peeping out of the too-large holes of the oversized fingerless gloves she'd managed to find somewhere. 

“You break it, you buy it,” she chirps cheerfully.

“Ahhh, but I haven't broken it yet have I?” Sherlock ripostes, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out some money wrapped in paper, laying it in her palm.

Pale fingers with nails bitten to the quick curl over the money and made it disappear like magic into one of the many pockets that is hidden within her many layers. “Mmmmm, but it's only a question of time, aye?”

Time. That is the problem. He needs to solve this problem and it is taking far too much time and he can't work on it in the flat. Not any more. Too much time, too much mess, and it would only have been a matter of time before John realized what was going on and put a stop to it. And he can't have that. John wouldn't definitely _not_ approve of either task he has before him. He needs to unravel two riddles now, and it's the perfect time to do so, what with no other work to take care of first. He'd been getting far too bored as of late. He needed time and he needed a place and now? Now he has both. He glances up at the building again, grinning. This will keep his mind busy and distracted. He claps his gloved hands together excitedly, rubbing them together.

Billie stands next to him, hands on her hips, staring up at the building she had located for him, most likely with the help of the rest of the homeless network. She snuffles and rubs at her nose casually with the cuff of her over-long jumper, the sound causing Sherlock to glance back down at her. Oh yes, she is tough, but under the layers Sherlock can see how skinny her arm is, see the dark circles under her eyes, the paper thin paleness of her skin and how tightly it is pulled over her cheekbones.

“You have to share that with the others,” he notes, not a question or a demand, simply a fact that they both know.

Billie nods her head, only the small squinch of her features betraying her disappointment at not being able to pocket it all for herself.

It's not like him to be sentimental, but winter is coming and Sherlock feels a rare sensation of concern come over him for the young girl.“Care to earn some more, just for you?”

Her head whips around, long brown hair rolling over her shoulder in a wild cascade of curls before she remembers to be cool and collected, the over-eager expression on her features melting into fierce determination as she sniffs again and makes it seem like one of disinterest rather than a runny nose from the cold weather.

“Maybe. Depends.”

“An hours work, with another quarter on what you've already received, plus a sandwich for lunch.”

It is obvious that she wants to jump on the offer, but she pretends to consider it deeply, her lips twisting this way and that as she weighs the pros against the non-existent cons before bargaining, “An hour's work, half of what you've already given me, plus a hot meal in a place that serves real food, not just sandwiches.” She crosses her arms over her flat chest as she stares up at Sherlock, utterly unperturbed at the extreme angle she has to tilt her head back to do so. 

Sherlock is determined not to lessen her bargaining power by grinning at her cheek. He has to confess, she reminds him a little of someone else with a fondness for jumpers and a lack of height. Not in appearance, but definitely in stubbornness and spirit.

“Agreed. Now come, we have work to do...”

 

*****

 

The first thing he needs to do is protect the populace. This isn't out of the kindness of his heart or a sense of responsibility for others. Heavens no. This is self-preservation at best and a lack of patience for the interference of others. If no one gets hurt by messing with his work, then it's less likely the matter will come back to him. And the last thing he wants is squatters getting underfoot, causing trouble, and getting in the way. No, much better to be proactive and avoid any complications to begin with than to have to deal with fixing them afterward. Chances are that anything that does get 'broke' will not be fixable.

The first step is easy, which is the only reason why he lets Billie help him, other than wanting to help her out a little more. Billie is, if he had to use the ridiculous term, one of his 'favourites', though it would be more logical to say that she is simply one of the more reliable members of his homeless network. She is dependable, practical, and, more often than not, available. It also didn't hurt that she is smart and knows how to keep her mouth shut when need be. And, for whatever reason, she seems to like Sherlock beyond the money he passes across her palm, which means that she is more trustworthy than others of her lot. From a more unexpected corner, she also has a latent talent to be an Adept, though it has not awoken in her yet. As such he's keeping an eye on her, waiting to see if her potential magic becomes kinetic. If it does, she will need a teacher and he might just find her worthy of taking on as a student. Or, at the very least, he'll make sure she finds a reliable mentor.

Sherlock patiently shows Billie how to draw the simple symbol, has her recreate it a few times to make sure she has it down, and then sends her on her way with a piece of chalk and the instructions to repeat the marking at the four corners of every window on the first floor and the four corners of every door. His explanation is simple – a warning to any who come by looking for a place to crash so they know that the building is already claimed. Her nose wrinkles up dubiously at the very idea that anyone will take that sort of marking seriously, but says nothing, merely nods. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches with humour at her reasonable doubt. But when it comes to the homeless network, if he wants to part with his money for apparently foolish reasons, he can count on them not to argue the matter.

The next step of the spell requires Sherlock to do some drawing as well, but first things first. Walking around the building, Sherlock finds each CCTV camera. The careful placement of bins and ledges affords him the leverage to gain access to the equipment while staying out of sight. With a sharpie marker he quickly places a hex on each one by marking the sides with a spell that he has worked out especially for dealing with Mycroft and his love of spying. Undoubtedly his brother will eventually realize that the cameras have been tampered with, but by the time that happens Sherlock will be long gone and finished with his work here. But it wouldn't do for Mycroft to know that Sherlock is here before then, let alone what he is doing. That would definitely result in unwelcome interference.

Sure enough, once an hour has passed, Billie comes back to him and drops the tiny scrap of leftover chalk into his palm, wiping her hand over her sweaty brow. “Bugger me, but you weren't kidding! That were a lot of windows! And some of them were bloody tall. Had to climb up and stretch! Don't know why you didn't do those, bein' the giraffe you are.”

“Because you love to climb and you can't resist showing off so I left it to you. Now,” Sherlock orders pointedly, giving her the money promised, “...shove off, I've got work to do.”

“What about lunch?”

With a casual shrug of his shoulders, Sherlock points out, “There's enough extra in there for you to go anywhere you like, provided it isn't Le Gavroche.”

“What about you?”

“Billie,” Sherlock reprimands, his tone light but still firm, “you know how I hate to repeat myself.”

She takes her time, counting the money before pocketing it and giving the consulting detective the two fingered salute, although the grin belies any anger in the gesture. “Yeah, yeah, you got work to do. A fine day to you too, y'arse.”

As she dashes off, Sherlock watches her go with a small, indulgent smile before the expression falls into serious lines and he turns around again.

Sherlock pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and studies the design that he will need to copy to complete the spell. Pulling out a fresh piece of chalk he crouches down by the first corner and begins to draw. There must be one of these more complicated circles at each of the four corners of the building. Fortunately chalk will suffice and once the spell is set it won't require the symbols to hold it steady. His mind is focused on the task, drawing power to him as he lays down each mark, attaching the magic to it and locking it into place.

One, two, three, four circles are drawn, each one examined carefully for accuracy before Sherlock moves to the next. Coming full circle, Sherlock steps into the centre of the first circle he drew and takes a deep breath. Reaching out he begins to draw the magic and the power to him, shaping it to his will with words and gestures, linking the four separate circles into one. 

Sherlock can feel the spell as it snaps into place. A sense of foreboding and discomfort seems to permeate the very brick of the building and the cement of the pavement. The sensation is unpleasant, even to him, but it doesn't affect him the way it will others. Still, best he be sure of its effectiveness. Stepping into the shelter of one of the doorways, Sherlock waits and watches. Sure enough as a pedestrian draws closer to the building he turns without even realizing that he's doing so, crossing the street and then progressing on his way rather than choosing to walk in front of this old warehouse. Another passer-by, most likely of a more Sensitive nature stops and stares, shuddering as if a ghost had just stepped on her grave before hurrying away from the structure. Silver eyes watch silently and patiently until Sherlock is convinced that the spell is performing properly. Once convinced he nods to himself. Excellent. Now the real work can begin.

*****

Gently placing the case he brought with him onto the floor of the warehouse, Sherlock prowls through the first floor, circling around and around as his pale grey eyes take in everything of import - the location of the supporting columns; the windows facing east and west, north and south; the smooth cement surface of the floor, free of any cracks or fissures. Surprising in an old abandoned warehouse like this, but then again he did stipulate the importance of that and Billie is always diligent and trustworthy.

Slowly he draws his scarf off, the soft fabric scraping over his throat as he glances upward at the high lofting ceiling. Not unexpected in this sort of structure, but it's still a good height, just in case. No matter how big Melmoth wants to present himself, the space will be large enough. It will hold him nicely. Releasing the scarf, Sherlock peels off his coat and drops it to the floor as well, grateful that he paid extra for the space to be cleaned and simply hopes that Billie remembers to give each of his 'employees' the food and drink that he left for them after the job was done. Just a small spell was added – nothing harmful. Just enough to ensure that once they were finished with the job they would conveniently forget all about this place.

Long graceful fingers work quickly to roll up his sleeves, hands then planting themselves on his hips as he nods to himself.

Reaching down into his bag, Sherlock idly muses that for once he is actually grateful to Mycroft. His nose wrinkles automatically at the very thought of any sort of extended gratitude. But honestly his meddling brother could not have picked a more perfect time to offer up a distraction. Not to Sherlock, of course; nothing could distract him from the conjuration that needed to be done, but for John. 

His thoughts turn to his flatmate, a frown touching upon his features without him even realizing it. Even someone without Sherlock's perceptive gaze could see that the army doctor is troubled. The fact that Sherlock cannot put his finger on what precisely troubles John bothers him even more than John's obvious distress. Hence why this work is necessary – now for two reasons. After all, he is no fool. Even with Anthea's proffered translation and explanation of “zhēn rén”, Sherlock didn't take anything that came from Mycroft's quarters without a healthy sense distrust. Returning to the Fo Guang Shan Temple, Sherlock was assured that while the translation was accurate, it wasn't precisely complete. There was another translation, one that rang far truer to Sherlock's suspicions than the one that was previously proffered.

Crouching down, Sherlock removes the tools of his trade, which honestly looked more like a painter's or a carpenter's tools than what one might imagine an Adept would use to call and control magic. Chalk, string, nails, a hammer, paint, and a number of paintbrushes of different sizes and thicknesses are drawn out and placed with care upon a folding table. There isn't the time, or the money, to do this truly properly. Perhaps some day Sherlock will be able to create a permanent summoning circle imbedded in the ground with silver or copper. Finding the money to do so, and managing to do so without Mrs. Hudson kicking up a fuss about the state of her floors is another matter entirely. But a painted circle is far superior to a chalk one, and after his foolish mistake in tangling with Siwang at the British Museum, Sherlock no longer trusts the flimsy barrier of white dust for summoning demons when paint is readily available instead.

Hence, in part, why he needs somewhere else to work. Mrs. Hudson would never forgive him he started painting her floor with circles of power and symbols of bonding, no matter how much the landlady seemed to think that John and he were a couple. And John would be furious if he caught Sherlock meddling and making deals with demons. That is definitely outside of the good doctor's moral compass.

Yes, Mycroft was unusually helpful with his request, for it bought Sherlock what he needed the most. Time. Time to work undisturbed and unobserved. And it had the excellent side bonus of being a much needed distraction to keep John busy and occupied. His work at the clinic only took him out of the flat for so long, being temporary work at best rather than a full position. No, he needed something to truly occupy his mind and his time. Funny how John seemed to need the work nearly as much as Sherlock did. Without it, both of them failed to flourish, though John definitely enjoyed the quiet periods of time far more than Sherlock did, puttering about with tea and papers and his journal in hand. 

Sherlock's hands draw the symbols and circle automatically, his mind on other things while the rest of his body performs the tasks necessary to prepare the space without thought. The gestures and actions are so familiar as to be as easy and natural as breathing. So as he works, he thinks of John. 

Guilt. That much was clear, it was guilt that was eating away at John, but _what_ John felt guilty about, Sherlock could not fathom. The only obvious answer, and it was so obvious as to be _too_ obvious, was the fact that he was hiding what he truly was. That he had lied to Sherlock when he claimed that he was nothing more than human. That he didn't know what those words meant. He knew. Sherlock knew that he knew. How John could not know that Sherlock knew that he knew was one of those funny little head things that Sherlock could never truly fathom the reality of.

And still, John said nothing. And Sherlock had given him nothing but time. He watched and he listened and on occasion he stole John's journal and thumbed through the pages looking for any sort of clues that might illuminate the truth of the matter. But for the exception of Sherlock's involvement in it, John's life was dreadfully pedestrian. His job was dull, his outings were dull, and he often acted like the simplest things were the most extraordinary - like the taste of food at a good restaurant or the texture of bark on a tree. There were times when Sherlock honestly wondered if John wasn't a little simple in the head for the amount of delight he took in everyday things.

Sherlock carefully hadn't pressed or prodded for information because he knew that in doing so John would simply buckle down and become even more obstinate than he ordinarily was. In some ways his flatmate was infinitely pliable, but Sherlock had learned quickly that when he chose to be, John could be astonishingly recalcitrant to the point of resembling the Rock of Gibraltar. But worse, Sherlock knew that if he pushed too hard then John would feel obligated to hide from Sherlock rather than letting his expressive face show his every emotion. Must remember to challenge John to a game of poker, Sherlock thought to himself idly. 

It was easy to deduce that the emotions experienced by his flatmate were many. There was residual guilt and relief from the fact that his sister was saved, but compared to the rest, both expressions were positively benign. The guilt might have been due to not being able to protect his sister, something John took very personally despite the fact that there was honestly nothing that he could have done. Because if there had been anything, he would have done it and Sherlock's witnessing of it be damned. He knew that much of John– that when the stakes required it, he wouldn't hesitate to save another life, no matter what the risk. Someone less intelligent might say that the attack on his sister and her death had triggered John's PTSD and that was the culprit of his nightmares. 

And they would, in part, be correct. But the nightmares that haunted John were about a great deal more than the death he witnessed a few weeks before or the many deaths he'd witnessed during his years in Afghanistan. No there was something far deeper involved here. This was true guilt, the sort that would be felt by a good man who had murdered an innocent person. John was a good man. Sherlock would say that he was most likely the best man he had ever known. But that was the problem, wasn't it? For all that he could deduce about his flatmate, there was something else that he couldn't see. Something that diminished his deductions, leaving the picture of his flatmate looking like a faded photo. The information was there, but something was missing. It seemed that he didn't actually “know” John at all.

A grim smile touches his lips as Sherlock murmurs to himself, “Well, that ends now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and a special thank you to my newest beta AgentTonya for giving me some really great advice about this current chapter. I added a bunch of new stuff to it as a result, so if there are any mistakes (because I didn't send it out to my betas again), they're all mine. Thank you as well to my lovely britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	4. Chapter 4

While Tup left to connect with his brownie community, John had gone back to the flat to bandage up his arm and change his clothes. In the interim he received three more texts from Mycroft which sealed the deal. If nothing else, he would go see the man just to get him off his back. As such, John currently found himself seated in a prestigious looking office of dark wood and elegant moulding, waiting to be graced by the presence of the elder Holmes.

The door finally opens and Mycroft enters looking rather distracted, though perhaps that is not so unusual for someone who is essentially the British government. 

“Ahh, John,” he greets without so much as looking at his guest. “What can I do for you?”

Clearing his throat, John shifts slightly his chair and returns, “Really? Four texts and it's what can I do for you?”

Mycroft takes a seat and shifts papers in front of him, as if by ignoring John's words he can deny his earlier actions. 

With a sigh of forbearance, John shifts tactics. “Actually it's more what can _I_ do for _you_?” At the somewhat dubious sniff, he adds, “That is to say, Sherlock sent me over to find out more information about the case.”

Mycroft's head lifts at that admission, a rather dry and dubious expression proffered in turn as he asks dryly, “Did he now?”

“Yes.”

“Look, John, lets not play games. You and I both know that Sherlock won't take the case simply because I've asked him to take the case. But it is important, so here is what I propose.” Moving a specific file over to the left side of the desk, he places it down meaningfully before announcing, “You should solve the case.”

“Wait, what, me?”

“Yes, you, what is so odd about that?”

“Well for one, I'm no Sherlock and for another... I'm not Sherlock. I mean, I'm flattered that you both think I have studied his methods enough to replicate them...”

Scoffing aloud, Mycroft's lips purse and then draw into a thin line of ridicule. “Oh, don't be ridiculous. I obviously don't mean for you to solve the case. But you can start doing the legwork, looking into the details, interviewing the various relevant parties. And, of course, Sherlock won't inquire as to the details, but you'll tell them to him anyway. And in the end, he'll find himself irresistibly drawn to the case, despite his antipathy toward me and he'll solve it because if there's one thing that Sherlock cannot resist, it's a puzzle in need of solving.”

John allows himself a moment of to be smug as it would seem that his plan is Mycroft's plan, which means that it must be a pretty good plan. Still, it does smart a little to be proven right. “So, basically you're baiting your trap for Sherlock with me.”

“Not at all. You're hardly interesting enough. You're merely the catalyst through which Sherlock will be drawn to the case.” At the deadpan look that John gives Mycroft, the elder Holmes continues. “Oh, don't be so cynical. You are a Sensitive, after all. You should be able to shed some light on the matter that Sherlock will, quite literally, be unable to see on his own. And you'll have help, of course.”

“Wait a second, help?”

“Oh yes. Didn't I mention? There are several parties who will have a particular interest in these stolen plans. And when when I say “parties” I don't mean the sort who sit down for high tea. No, no, it wouldn't do to send you out unprepared or unprotected.”

Bristling in his seat, John sits up straighter and notes sharply, “You might recall that I did serve in Her Majesty's Royal Army.”

“Mmmmmm, yes. As a field medic.”

“Yes, with the emphasis on “field”. Medic or not, you are a soldier first and foremost when you're working in a war zone.”

“That may be the case, but the kind of people that you'll be potentially dealing with won't be the sort that will be phased by things like bullets.” Reaching over his desk, Mycroft presses a button on his intercom, though he doesn't bother to speak into it before sitting back and folding his hands on top of his desk blotter. “No, no, Sherlock would be very put out if I were to get his favourite flatmate overly damaged, so I'm giving you an assistant.”

Like magic, a section of the elaborately paneled wall shifts and turns outward, revealing a hidden door door just behind Mycroft and to the left. From said door enters a familiar figure.

Gesturing back with one hand, Mycroft purrs, “You remember Anthea, of course.”

Rising to his feet, John reaches out a hand to the elegant woman who seems far more interested in her mobile device than either John or Mycroft. Belatedly she notices his hand and stares at it with active disinterest. John allows his hand to fall to the side and addresses the woman directly. “Ah, yes, hello.”

Her gaze finally lifts to consider John, her expression bland and unimpressed. “Hello.”

He stands there awkwardly before explaining to her, “We met, before, in the car?”

Her brow wrinkles slightly as if trying to conjure up the memory of the brief time they spent together was not worth the effort. “Did we?”

“Right, right, never mind.” The hand at his side rubs against his trousers awkwardly.

“Anthea, this is Dr. John Watson. I want you to assist him on the Bruce Partington investigation and make sure that he doesn't come to any harm.”

Anthea's perfectly shaped eyebrow lifts at the command, as she studies John quietly before answering, “Understood.”

“Very well. I'll leave you two to get acquainted then, you can brief him on all the facts of the case, and then work out the details of how you would like to proceed amongst yourselves.”

This, apparently, is how Mycroft says goodbye, because John has the distinct impression that he's just been dismissed, and he used to be in the army. Anthea confirms this by collecting the file off of Mycroft's desk and then taking a long legged stride past John. Turning when he does not immediately fall in line, that dubious eyebrow arches again as she adds in an almost annoyed tone of voice, “If you'll follow me?”

“To the ends of the earth.” The snarky, flirtatious comeback escapes his lips without him even realizing it was on the tip of his tongue. Anthea releases a sigh of great tedium in turn and pivots in place to continue her forward march. John manages to give Mycroft one last puzzled look before hurrying to catch up with Anthea's brisk pace.

Like Sherlock, Anthea does not temper her gait to match John's, instead forcing John to walk double time just to keep up with her. She passes him the file that she collected and opening it up John finds Cadogan West's autopsy report which he automatically flips through, eyes narrowing as he reads the contents. 

“The problem is this - Cadogan West, aged 27, employed by the MOD, involved in a minor capacity with the Bruce Partington Program. His security checks are clear with no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen by his fiancée 10:30 last evening. He was found on the tracks of Battersea with, as you can see, his head smashed in by a train. It's difficult to ascertain if he meant to commit suicide and panicked at the last minute but did not pull back in time, or if he was murdered, and pushed into the moving train. The location, however, is oddly remote for either possibility. The only thing that we do know is that he had checked out one of the Prometheus drives and did not return it before his death. His flat and all known hang-outs and premises have been searched, but the drive has yet to be found. Mr. West was engaged to be married and has a family that he sends most of his money to. One theory is that he decided to steal the drive, sell it, and use the money to “disappear”.

“That seems unlikely though, doesn't it?” John replies. “I mean, he had, I assume, a well paying job, a fiancée, a family.... why would he give all that up?”

Anthea's eyes swivel to look at John before shifting forward again. “My point exactly. Humans are ridiculously sentimental and Mr. West seemed to be more so than most. I likewise suggested that such a theory was flawed. It is more likely that someone else found out that he had the Prometheus drive and tried to extract it from him, either killing him in the process or afterward to hide their tracks. The question that remains is did said individual manage to get the drive or did Mr. West hide it somewhere? If the person did get hold of the drive, do they want it for themselves or are they planning to sell it? Do they even know what is on it or the value of it? Mr. West's body did not show any signs of torture so unless he gave up willingly what the contents of the drive are, which is highly unlikely considering his character, it is probable that the individual in question doesn't know the value of what they're holding. And since Mr. West's position is publicly known to be simply a clerk at the MOD with no high-level privileges, it's doubtful that he was targeted with advance knowledge that he had the drive.”

Anthea walks a good three yards before she realizes that John isn't with her any longer, turning back to stare at John who stands with his hands in fists. The two have a short standoff with neither approaching the other until Anthea finally gives in, her heels clicking decisively against the floor until she is standing before him.

“What is the problem? I don't do human emotions, so you're going to have to spell out why you're standing here in what appears by your physical manifestations to be a strop.”

His tone sharp and biting, John asks, “And how precisely would you know how to recognize a strop if you don't 'do human emotions'?”

Her brow lifts and the tiniest of smiles touches Anthea's lips as she replies, “Because I work for Mycroft Holmes and he has a brother named Sherlock Holmes.”

The words are just facts, but the humour is there nonetheless, alleviating some of John's anger. “Fair enough. Anyone who knows Sherlock Holmes can recognize a strop when they see it.” His head lifts up to meet Anthea's gaze as he asks plainly, “Why am I here?”

“You're here because you want to help with this case and Sherlock will not.”

“No, I know why I came here, but that's not the same reason as why I'm _here_. Why is Mycroft sending me off with you when it's obvious that you already know what the facts of the case are, the possible scenarios, and likely the suspected culprits of the crime already.”

“Ah. Yes. Let me be blunt then. You are here because Sherlock will listen to you but will not listen to me. You are here because Sherlock trusts you and does not trust me. You are additionally here because you have an impressive amount of power as a Sensitive and will be able to sense the Prometheus drive should we come across it. But you are, mostly here because as I said before I don't “do” human and as a result we will likely be much more successful in getting the necessary information with you leading the case than if I do. Also on occasion you may have to translate body-language and other annoying human signals and mannerisms that I have yet to master.”

“So in other words, I'm useless as an investigator and am basically here as a sniffing dog and translator?”

“Precisely.”

John ponders for a moment what he would be doing if he wasn't doing this and comes to the decision that he'd rather be doing something. No matter how degrading it might be or how useless he might prove, the chance that he might be able to make a difference beats sitting around feeling guilty and ashamed over something he has no perceivable control over.

“I can live with that.”

“Good, because we're already running late.”

“And where are we off to?”

“To interview the fiancée of course.”

 

*****

 

After only five seconds, John realized exactly what Anthea meant when she said she was not good with humans. John glares at her over the fiancée's shoulder as the woman clings to him, weeping. This was going to be hard enough without Anthea coming in right from the start, demanding to know where the Prometheus drive was, claiming that Westie was a traitor for stealing it, and then threatening the woman with arrest if she was in on the theft or was deliberately hiding the device.

Anthea was showing no signs of remorse, no matter how hard John tried to reprimand her with the severity of his gaze for reducing the poor woman to tears, his hand gently rubbing her back as he murmurs soothingly, “There, there, I must apologize for my partner. She can be a little... overzealous in her pursuit of the truth.”

“He wouldn't – he just wouldn't. Westie wasn't a traitor,” she sobbed against John's shoulder, trembling with genuine emotion and distress. Either Elizabeth Neill was an extraordinary actress or she truly wasn't involved in either the disappearance of the Prometheus drive or Westie's death.

Drawing back slightly, John leads Liz over to the couch and gently settles her down before taking a seat next to her, his voice gentle and soothing as he replies, “I'm know. I'm sorry. But stranger things have happened.”

“Is that what they think?” she asks, a tissue now in hand as she wipes at her red eyes and running nose. Her voice is still distressed but with a tinge of anger in it now as she rallies herself back, finding both her dignity and her pride. “That's what they think, isn't it? His bosses?” Her head turns toward Anthea, who is now blithely ignoring the pair of them, Liz's eyes shooting daggers at the oblivious changeling from the safety of the couch.

Drawing her attention back to himself, John points out, “He was a young man, about to get married. He had a family to support. He had debts.”

“Debts? Everybody has debts! Westie wouldn't want to clear them by selling out his country. God, he never even told _me_ about his work. Until yesterday I just thought he was a filing clerk, low level, y'know? Nobody important. And now this?”

Sensing that he's losing her to her anger and grief, John gently guides her back around. “I know you've already gone over this with the police, but can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

The request has the desired result as Liz sniffs and stops, thinking for a moment before telling her story. “We were having a night in, watching a DVD. Nothing special. Just a little wine and a romantic comedy. But Westie was just... off. Distracted like. He was quiet, only laughed after I did, like it was forced. Like his mind was on something else. Then out of the blue he said he had to go see someone. And that was it. He was gone. And that was the last time that I saw him.”

Tears are rising fast and before she can be swept away with her grief, John asks, “Do you have any idea who he went to see?

Words fail in the face of her tears, but she shakes her head before burying her face in her hands.

 

*****

 

As the door shuts behind them, John turns to Anthea and exclaims, “Really? How could you be so heartless? How could you attack her like that? You don't even believe that Westie was a traitor.”

Lifting her gaze from her mobile, Anthea gives John a cool look before pointing out, “Good cop, bad cop. 

“That's for suspects, not the recently bereaved!”

“In Mycroft's opinion, until proven innocent, everyone's a suspect.”

“That's insane. Am I a suspect?”

Anthea gives John that 'you're being stupid again, stop it' look before returning her attention to her mobile. Which really doesn't answer his question at all. “I threw her off balance, got her emotional and vulnerable, then you stepped in and do what you do which is try to make everything better which got direct and honest answers from her.”

“Honest answers that I'm sure we would have got without you terrorizing and upsetting her.”

“Perhaps, but her emotional response speaks to either great innocence or great guilt. Time will tell which it is.” Glancing up from her mobile, she asks, “Did you sense the Prometheus drive when we were in the flat?”

Blinking, John ponders the question for a moment before shaking his head. “No, there was nothing obviously magical in the flat.”

Nodding, Anthea purses her lips. “Pity. The drive is difficult to sense, but to an individual of your level of Sensitivity, it would be like a flaming beacon.” Her head cocks to one side. “Where to now, Dr. Watson?”

Pursing his lips, John considers where Sherlock would go before realizing the obvious choice. “Crime scene. Let's see where Westie died.”

 

*****

 

Anthea stood back, barely paying attention as John followed the engineer onto the tracks to where Westie's body had been found. He felt ridiculous wearing a bright orange safety vest in broad daylight. As if he couldn't see and hear a train coming and get out of the way, though he supposed in his plain tan jumper and khaki trousers, he did rather blend in with the dull and drab gravel of the tracks.

“Right here it was. Makes me so mad. S'alright for them. One small step and bam, they're dead. Easy peasy. They don't take no consideration for the engineer.”

Crouched down beside the curving rails, John stared at the ground, bemused while the man prattled on, glancing up with a look of confusion on his face. “What?”

“The driver. It's a terrible thing to have to live with, knowing that you killed a man. I mean, not intentional like, but just the same, you were driving the vehicle what killed him. You can't forget that. There's no getting over that, no matter what they say. Least he didn't know till later. Didn't see him, didn't even feel an impact, though a body makes little enough resistance against a train, 'specially one that didn't even get run over or nothing.”

Dusting his hands on his legs, John stands up and nodding, replies, “Yes, they said that the death happened at night, estimated time of death based on body temperature sometime around 1am?”

“Aye, that's what they said, though it don't make much sense really. No trains passed this way at that time. Naturally they didn't hear or feel a thing. If it weren't for the fact that nobody would be walking around here at that hour of the night, I would have said the poor bloke was drunk or something. Wasn't like he was crushed or in pieces after all. Just his head was bashed in they said. Like he was just leanin' over the tracks or something when the train come round the bend...”

“So where precisely did they find the body?”

“Right where you're standing”

The frown hasn't left John's features as he stares at the ground before asking, “Did they clean the site up?”

“What?”

“The site. This spot here where the....” Suicide? Accident? Murder? “Where the incident took place. Did someone clean it up? I don't see any sign of blood and I don't recall it raining at all recently.”

The engineer shakes his head, replying, “There weren't none. Well, not much to speak of.”

John's eyes narrow and focus on the heavy man's features, repeating his words just to make sure that the man meant to say what he said. “There wasn't any blood?”

“No. Well, there was some blood. Just a little though. Thank goodness too. Hard enough to see that sort of thing without there being blood and brains everywhere.”

John pursed his lips thoughtfully and murmured, “Thank you. I'll just continue to have a look about if you don't mind?”

“Sure, knock yourself out.” A morbid smile curls his lips at the unintentional joke as he adds, “But you know, not like 'he' did, alright? Don't want to start a trend or nothing.”

“No, no of course not...”

He waits until the man is out of sight before walking slowly over the tracks, staring at the supposed point of impact bemusedly before he gets an itching feeling along the nape of his neck.

Glancing up, John notices that Anthea is watching him closely now, rather than her mobile, and after a moment she strides his way. 

“What is it?”

John straightened, placing his hands on his hips as he glanced around once more, eyeing the bloodless point of impact and its location in conjunction with the turning track. “Well, something is definitely not right. He wasn't killed here, that much is certain.”

Nose wrinkling, Anthea's head tilts slightly to one side as she inquires, “Your proof?”

“The photos and the reports all indicate that Cadogan West died from blunt force trauma to the head. The head is incredibly vascular. Any injury to it that breaks the skin results in an impressive amount of blood and yet here we are and there's not a drop of blood in sight. The site wasn't cleaned and it hasn't rained, so where did the blood go?”

Anthea's brow lifts, her interest in human anatomy clearly non-existent or unworthy of notice. 

“He was killed somewhere else.”

“Ludicrous. And then, what, in order to hide the body they thought they would just drag it onto a train? Because naturally that is the best way not to get caught... bringing a dead body onto a train, surrounded by people.” Her tone is dry and disbelieving.

“He could have been on the train? Killed on board and then thrown off?”

“Unlikely. His Oyster card wasn't used. There wasn't a ticket on the body. It would be extremely difficult to kill someone in a car and then drag the body to the nearest door, force it open, and push said body out, all without being noticed or setting off any alarms. Additionally,” she notes, ”none of the trains have been reported to have any signs of violence. Blood stains would be difficult to clean up without witnesses.”

“Right. So if he wasn't on the train and he wasn't killed here, then there's only one other solution.”

“And that would be?”

“Damned if I know...” Turning around John starts walking back toward the direction the train would have come from. It's there; the answer is there, hovering on the fringes of his mind if he could just figure out how to think like Sherlock...”

 

*****

 

“What exactly are we doing?” inquires Anthea archly.

“What, other than walking the tracks?”

“Yes.”

“We're looking for clues.” John's eyes slide over to Anthea before he huffs out a breath and corrects, “Well, I'm looking for clues.” Anthea's eyes do little but stare at one of three places – her device, John, and straight ahead.

“You know, you don't seem very invested” John remarks.

“In?”

“In - the world? In people? In anything other than what's in your hand?”

With a soft huff of annoyance, Anthea replies dryly, “I'm playing babysitter for you when I have more important things to do.”

“More important.... right, well, I realize that my life is not worth much to you, and I don't really need a bodyguard, thank you very much, but Mycroft indicated that this case was extremely important and you are working for Mycroft, so one would think that this case would likewise be extremely important to you.”

Her eyes narrow in annoyance as Anthea retorts, “I think Mycroft is handling this case poorly.”

John stops for a moment, turning around to look back at the changeling. “It does seem a bit odd. I mean, I know he wants Sherlock to be on the case, but if these plans are so damn important, why take the risk of waiting for Sherlock to decide to help. Why not send out agents better suited to this sort of thing?”

Something subtle flickers within those brown eyes before Anthea lets out a faint sigh of irritation. “He can afford to be a little bit... casual in this particular case. Because it is a Prometheus drive that's been stolen, it's unusually powerful and strongly encrypted. Anyone who steals it will have to get past both magical spells and technological cyphers in order to access the information. There's also the concern that it might be an inside job. You, being who you are, are something of a safe bet. But what he wants is Sherlock to be investigating, and he knows that sooner or later, with you dangling out here, bumbling around and messing things up, Sherlock will step in and take over the case. You've seen how he is with Scotland Yard. How long do you think it will be until he pops up in your wake or, more likely, three steps in front of you?”

John's mouth hangs slightly open, not at all certain of how to respond. The ex-angel doesn't have a very large ego, but regardless it feels rather bruised at the moment.

Folding her arms over her chest, Anthea stares at him and plainly states, “You, Dr. John H. Watson, are merely bait. And I am your babysitter to make sure that while you stand out here, dangling deliciously, no one else bites your head off.”

“Dangling deliciously?” Both of John's brows are raised now in confusion.

“Those are Mycroft's words. He has a fondness for comestibles”

“Right. Well, regardless of all that I'm not just going to stand aside and wait for Sherlock to come around to his brother's way of thinking. I don't think you realize just how stubborn he can be.”

Anthea's lips curl into a slow smile, like a cat stretching out in a beam of sunlight and just as smug. One brow lifts inquiringly.

John finds his lips curling as well, as he takes in her knowing expression and corrects, “Belay that, of course you do. Trying to out-stubborn either one of them would be like trying to outstare a cat.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, John offers Anthea a weary smile. “Right then, so I suppose it is our mutual duty then to put up with both of them and keep keeping on. And who knows? Perhaps I will surprise you after all?”

“That is my continual hope, Dr. Watson, lest I die of boredom.”

John turns back once more and tilts his head toward the tracks as Anthea unfolds her arms to gesture that he should lead on. As he draws closer to where the body was found, John jumps slightly in surprise when the set of tracks they're walking shifts with a sharp clank, changing the route that the incoming train will be taking from slightly to the left to dramatically to the right. His memory clicks into place two seconds behind.

“I have an idea. What if Westie was on the train but not on the train?”

Her brow rises as Anthea inquires, “Is this some kind of riddle?”

Shaking his head, John can't believe he didn't see it before. “All around the world there are people who ride on top of trains. I saw this quite often during my stint in Afghanistan. You said Westie didn't have a ticket in his pocket, he hadn't used his Oyster card and, as you pointed out so sardonically before, it's highly unlikely that anyone killed him on the train or brought his body just so they could toss him off of it. But just beyond the location where his body was found the tracks curve dramatically to the right, and Westie's body was found here, off to the left. If his body was dumped onto the top of the train it would have simply rolled and fallen off when the train took this turn.”

Turning about abruptly, John reverses course once more, walking with purpose. As they continue to walk, shoes crunching in the gravel alongside the tracks, Anthea digests his proposal. “Sounds peculiar, but plausible. So, what? We are just going to walk along these tracks until we find a building would facilitate the disposal of a body by dropping it onto a train?”

“Yep.”

The sound of two pairs of feet crunching along reduces down to one. “No.”

Turning about John lifts a questioning brow and queries, “No?” as Anthea stands resolutely, engrossed once more with her mobile and clearly not intending to take another step. “So, what, you have a better idea?”

Her head lifts again, eyes at once both pitying and amused, as if John were nothing more than a clueless, but slightly endearing child. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas writeaddict and AgentTonya and special thanks to my britpicker aranel_parmadil for having such a fast turnaround. You guys are great!
> 
> Just a heads up that Chapter 5 is a mess and there is a good chance that it will be posted later than next Saturday. I'll update on my tumblr (the-mamishka.tumblr.com) if I'm going to be late.
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	5. Chapter 5

John waits for Anthea to show him up once more and sure enough in a gesture reminiscent of Sherlock, Anthea flicks her wrist out to show John a map on her mobile. One perfectly manicured crimson nail taps against the screen imperiously. “There are seven calculated locations that meet the necessary criteria of abutting the train tracks. However, only three of them match both the train schedules and the estimated time of death of Mr. West. As a result, I recommend we target those three first.”

“Wait, you got your mobile to not only identify the possible drop points but also to coordinate those locations with the train schedule and time of death in,” glancing at his watch John boggles before adding, “less than five minutes?”

“Of course, can't yours?” Anthea arches one superior brow.

“Um I doubt it. I don't think I can even convince Google Maps to show me locations close to the train tracks, let alone provide the addresses...” 

It's hard to say whether the look she gives John is pitying or just withering. John chooses to believe it is the former. Reaching out a curious hand, John asks, “May I?”

There's a moment of hesitation and John wonders if perhaps it is physically impossible for Anthea to be without her device. But she hands it over to him reluctantly warning, “Don't touch anything.”

He wasn't planning on it. He just wants to see if his suspicions are correct. Once the object is laid upon his palm he can feel it – the magic shining through the protective shields that would make even the strongest sensitive blind to its true power unless they were touching it. It's a piece of art, the way the magic and the technology flawlessly work together to create something even greater than each would be on its own. “I thought this was what Mycroft wanted Sherlock for?”

“Sherlock is not the only Adept with a knack for combining technology and magic without conflict, he's just the most proficient at it. Indeed, much of the success of what you're holding in your hand is thanks to some early prototype work that Sherlock did in his youth.”

“So in other words, more of Sherlock's work that Mycroft stole.”

“Indeed.” The gravel crunches under her heels as Anthea turns and heads toward the street, forcing John to hurry up. Peeling off his bright orange vest to the engineer John scrambles to catch up. He just barely makes it before she has magically hailed a taxi. He half suspects that if he had been a minute later Anthea would already be off without him.

The first two locations are a bust. One had a drop that was too high up to ensure that Westie would land on the train and stay there. Additionally the drop would likely have left other suspicious marks upon the body. Despite these mitigating factors they searched the premises anyway, Anthea getting past the door and the owners by sheer will and litigious language in conjunction with a strange badge that was definitely not police and suggested to both himself and the couple the threat of God and Nation. 

The second location was the perfect height for dropping a body, but a quick check of the schedule and a study of the traffic quickly proved that the trains passing never slowed down enough to make depositing a body there possible. Once again, for the sake of thoroughness, the area was searched.

It is the third building furthest out that has some serious possibility with the trains stopping and starting there with great frequency. As they approach the door, John reaches out a hand with which to knock before Anthea stops him.

“Don't bother.”

“Don't bother?”

Clicking her device, she tilts her head to the side as she takes in the data before her. “No one currently lives here.”

“Oh?” John waits for Anthea to enlighten him further and after a few more taps on her device she declares, “It's a rental property, held in trust by the Baskerville Corporation. They're a scientific research company. They apparently use it to put up guests, new hires, and the like. But according to my information the house has been vacant for several months.”

“And just how would you know that?”

“Because it belongs to the MOD – a cover corporation for some of Mycroft's more delicate work.”

Once again a feeling of discomfort and anxiety sweeps through John as he recalls Mycroft's delight in collecting and experimenting on small faeries and other supernatural creatures that he managed to catch. Looking up and down at the door, John muses, “Well if you say so, then I guess we just have to find the right person to request a set of - wait, what are you doing?” he asks as Anthea suddenly steps forward and crouches down next to the door.

“Do _you_ know how to pick locks?” She slips a packet from her pocket and opens it, revealing an entire set of lock picks.

John stares in surprise and files away yet another similarity between Sherlock and Anthea. “No.”

“Precisely. Which is why _I_ am picking it for you.” With a soft sigh of resignation, Anthea murmurs under her breath, “Now I understand why Mycroft dislikes working with others, it's so very tedious...” A few seconds of her twisting the pick and the door swings open with a soft k-klatch.

The pair of them step over the threshold, John alert as he walks through the place with his senses extended. It's probably asking for too much that he'll sense the Prometheus drive, but one can always hope. In the meanwhile he studies everything carefully, looking for clues and silently wishing that Sherlock was here with him. Despite all the years he has been guarding over Sherlock, practicing his methods is quite a bit different than admiring them.

As reported, the apartment is empty of anything suggesting that someone is actively residing or squatting in the space. Still, there are signs that things have been recently disturbed. A table was shifted, indentations of where it once sat still visible in the carpet. Something had been taken from a table as well, leaving a spot clear of dust in its wake.

“Did Westie know about this place?”

Anthea shrugs as she emerges from the kitchen. “It's entirely possible.” Drawing out her device it only takes a few clicks before she nods with a curious expression on her face. “He was put up here temporarily when he first arrived and was being interviewed.”

“So maybe he thought it would be a safe place to hide something?” He stops suddenly and takes a step back, crouching next to the window sill by the train tracks, calling out, “Anthea? I've got something...”

There's a smear of blood on the window-sill – not a great deal, but enough to be suspicious. The blood is dried, but still a rich shade of red suggesting that it isn't terribly old. Reaching into his pocket, John pulls out a pair of gloves and a penknife before carefully scraping the evidence into a small plastic bag brought along for just for the purpose of gathering evidence. When one lives with Sherlock Holmes, one tends to keep such things in one's pocket, which is most convenient in this instance. “Just taking a sample of this to be safe. Could be that someone cut themselves and left it and the cleaner didn't do a very thorough job, but just in case I'm wrong and it's actually Westie's blood.” Glancing about him, John muses, “Still, seems unlikely that Westie was killed here. I would have suspected there would be more blood than just a tiny drop of it.” John is honestly lost though at why Westie would come to this place let alone be murdered here.

With a tap of her shoe, Anthea points out, “It could be proof that Cadogan West was dumped from here, even if he wasn't murdered here.”

John nods in agreement, though he still feels like there is something wrong with the whole scenario. Damnit. If only Sherlock were here! “I find it hard to believe that they would have managed to clean up the amount of blood he lost from a massive head wound and miss this tiny bit here. Still, you never know. They might have had plastic tarp or killed him somewhere easier to clean up.” He pockets the sample before removing the nitrile gloves from his hands. “Right, okay, lets get this to Barts and see if it belongs to Westie or not. I'd additionally like to take a look at the body myself, just in case the doctor who did the autopsy missed something.”

“Really Dr. Watson. Fancying yourself a pathologist now?”

“Hardly. But I am a Sensitive and if magical means were used to kill him or reduce blood flow, I might still be able to sense that on the body. And as useless as both you and Sherlock seem to consider me, I just might notice something out of the ordinary. Besides, an autopsy report is all well and good, but I prefer seeing the victim myself. You never know what someone else might miss.”

*****

“Hello Molly.”

“Oh! Hello, John.” Molly visibly cranes her whole body to look around John, as if somehow Sherlock could be hiding behind him. She looks rather surprised to find Anthea standing there paying her no attention whatsoever. “Ummm, where's Sherlock?”

“Not here. He's got some other project that he's working on at the moment.”

“I see. Well, ahhh, what brings you here then?”

“I need a DNA extraction kit if you have one that you can spare?”

Frowning, Molly looks uncertain and John remembers that just because Sherlock can somehow use anything he wants at Barts doesn't mean that Molly or Stamford are going to extend him the same privileges. 

“Is this for Sherlock?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” John hedges with a cheerful smile meant to charm. After all, it is in a roundabout way for Sherlock – it's just one more method to try to convince the stubborn detective to take the case.

Molly doesn't seem particularly impressed by John's charm, but the idea that this is for Sherlock gets John what he's asking for as Molly fetches John the kit and brings him over to where the thermal cycler is so he can amplify the DNA in the samples. 

“Great, thanks.” John pulls the sample out of his pocket and places it on the table before turning back to Molly. “Ahhh, sorry, but I need one more thing from you? I need to see a body that was autopsied here and do a spectroanalysis on his blood sample as well. I have the autopsy report,” and he adds, proffering said report to Molly for confirmation, “but I would like to take a look for myself if you don't mind.”

Flipping through the pages, Molly frowns. “Ahhh, I'm sorry John, but I can't just let you look at one of the corpses here.”

“Of course you can,” Anthea interjects sharply as she suddenly comes to life, staring at Molly as if her gaze could drill a hole through the young pathologist's head.

“Ummm, I'm sorry, but who are you?”

“I work for Mycroft Holmes,” Anthea explains, flipping her badge once more before she adds, “And if you would like to keep your pathetic little job here at Saint Bartholomew's, I recommend that you give Dr. Watson anything and everything that he requests from you without further delay.”

Molly swallows, eyes now huge as her hands flutter like anxious birds to open the report once more. Staring down at it she blinks and murmurs, “Dr. Caruthers. That's odd.”

John cranes his head to look, giving Anthea a warning glance before peering over Molly's shoulder. “What is?”

“Well, it's just that we don't have a Dr. Caruthers here.”

Anthea cuts in, pointing out, “No of course not. We wouldn't let just _anyone_ do an autopsy in this case.”

Molly looks both distinctly uncomfortable at the slight and a little defensive. “We have very good pathologists at Barts...”

“With Class 4 security clearance?” When there is no reply other than a chastened look from Molly, Anthea drawls, “No, I didn't think so.”

“Wait, but if this is a classified case, why would the body still be here?”

With an irritated sigh, Anthea deigns to explain, “Because nothing that requires Class 4 security clearance was found.”

“Ah, right. Sorry. Here let me just find him for you...” she offers to John, looking for all the world like she would like nothing better than an excuse to get away from John's companion.

Returning a few moments later Molly looks more discomfited than usual. “Here, I found his paperwork on file as well as blood and tissue samples...”

“But?”

“Ummmm, well, this is dreadfully embarrassing, but we seem to have misplaced his body.”

“Misplaced?”

Blushing, Molly glances down at her shoes before lifting her gaze to meet John's incredulous expression. She actively shies away from Anthea. “Well, the body... the body isn't where it's supposed to be. I'm worried that there might have been a mix up. The cadaver in the next row over was due to be taken today for cremation and he's still here. I don't know if it's possible, but I'm wondering if maybe someone from the funeral home collected the wrong corpse.”

“The wrong corpse?” Molly most definitely has Anthea's attention now, and both her tone and her expression are positively scathing.

“Ummm, well, that is to say that I'm not certain that is what has happened. I just know that Mr. Menendez was meant to be picked up and his body is still in the drawer and he just happens to be in drawer number six while Mr. West was located in drawer nine, just to the right of Mr. Menendez's, and since bodies don't generally just wander off I thought that perhaps it would be possible.”

Crowding into Molly's personal space and forcing her to look up, Anthea snaps, “Let's eliminate the 'possible' and have the facts. Bring me a list of everyone who has been in here today, any bodies that were checked out and call the funeral home to see if the body they collected was positively identified and if it is still in corporal form or if it's in a piece of Tupperware.” When Molly stares at Anthea with her mouth open, Anthea adds gestures impatiently, “Now!”

John watches as Molly scurrying like a mouse and flees the room to her glassed in office and picks up the phone. She stares at it for a moment, flustered as if realizing that she doesn't even know who she's supposed to be calling. Her hands then scrabble across the desk, gathering files and forms and clipboards and frantically sorting through them.

Though John is likewise surprised and dismayed at the possibility that they have lost their corpse to some sort of clerical error, he still turns to glare at Anthea and retort, “You could have been a little nicer. It isn't Molly's fault that the wrong body might have been taken. We don't even know if that's the case yet. It could be that this Dr. Caruther's came back to do some follow up work or had the body removed.”

“Possibly,” Anthea replies, but her tone is dubious.

John watches as Molly talks on the phone, her fingers twisting into her hair and pulling on it nervously as she speaks. Thoughts fly through John's mind, but one sticks in the forefront, causing him to note quietly, “It's rather convenient though, don't you think?”

Turning her gaze to John, Anthea frowns. “I believe this is the exact opposite of convenient.”

“No, just,” his hands lift and gesture through the air, “if someone wanted to get rid of the evidence, it would be incredibly convenient if the body, the greatest source of evidence, were to mysteriously go missing, don't you think?”

Anthea lifts her chin studying John down the length of her nose for a moment before blinking and nodding. “I concur. All the more reason to suspect foul play and get an accurate listing of who has had access to this morgue today.” Her eyes scan the room as she notes with displeasure, “The security here is less than adequate. I can only hope that we can get a video recording of the day's activities. If the body was taken and disposed of deliberately, I'm sure the suspect in question did not sign in.”

With a soft sigh, John gathers up the samples and the DNA extraction kit that Molly brought over. “At least we have these samples to compare to the blood that was found on the window-sill. I'll work on this while Molly gets you whatever she can.”

John feels badly, leaving Molly to Anthea's less than tender mercies, but he'll be damned if he lets anyone else sequence the two samples of DNA for comparison.

*****

The circle was painted and took up a large portion of the floor. Sherlock felt better when he had room to manoeuvre and the demon in question was a sizable one that would perhaps be more inclined to be helpful if he too had more room than usual in which to present himself. Not that he really needed the demon's inclination; he would have its obedience. Summoning demons is always a delicate and not generally recommended procedure, but so long as you had their true name and a well designed and drawn circle, you could generally get whatever you needed out of them.

Walking the circle, Sherlock lit the white pillar candles there one by one before casting one last critical eye over the pattern and design that he had painstakingly painted. In the centre was a single human heart. He had the devil's own time getting it from Molly as hearts were not the sort of organ that went about unused after its owner no longer needed it. Only the defective ones tended to be available and even then it was tricky business to requisition one or just have one go... missing. But there it was, the perfect offering in the centre of a perfect circle. What could go wrong?

Stepping into the keystone of the circle, a loop that was for the summoner while the circle itself would bind the summoned, Sherlock closed his eyes and raised his hands. If he had the sight of a Sensitive he'd been told that he would see the magic around him as he drew it in and shaped it. See its colour and form, would know intimately the shape of it as well as if any part of it was flawed. But he didn't need to see the magic to make it work for him. He could feel it. If felt like wind against his body, fingers of it drawing through his hair. It smelled like a storm on the horizon, tinged with coppery blood and lightning. It felt like electricity against his skin, crackling and volatile, yet contained - potential energy just waiting to be unleashed and made kinetic.

He smiled as he composed and directed the magic like a virtuoso sinking deeper into the pure pleasure that was the making of magic. His mouth opened, sonorous words coming forth as he pushed the power into the circle of energy and summoned a demon.

Sherlock no longer needs the book, though it sits upon a table nearby for reference purposes. Now the words are one with his mind and his tongue. Rough. Guttural. Crude. Sherlock's naturally deep voice makes them profound. The name summoned makes them dangerous.

Like the last time, the space within the circle dims, all colour and light slowly draining away until it is a swirling shadow. Within the shadows another shadow forms all misshapen limbs and too many teeth. The air around the demon crackles and hisses as if offended by the very presence of the thing. This time it does not fight to escape, merely tests the confines of its cage as if already knowing that the bonds would be too tight, to perfect, to allow it to escape. Two slits emerge, slivers of red, and the shadow shifts, the many teeth gathering together in one massive mouth as it asks the perfunctory question.

"Why have you summoned me, mortal?"

Sherlock stands tall, calm and assured, a small feral grin touching upon his lips. Even though they have met several times before now, the ritual words are always the same. "I have a task for you."

The darkness shifts, as impatient with the steps and procedures as Sherlock is. "What do you offer in payment?"

Gesturing to the ground in the centre, Sherlock replies, "I offer you payment in blood and flesh."

“Finally,” the demon growls, the teeth descending as hands reach out to shove the heart in before swallowing it in one great gulp. It smacks its lips a few times before grumbling discontentedly, “Can't you ever get a proper offering?”

“What, a virgin heart from a young maiden, untouched and freshly cut from her chest, still beating? Sorry, we're fresh out of virgins.”

“Oh, I don't know about _that_ ,” the demon hisses with a soft chuckle, reminding Sherlock that business is business and that letting down his guard with a demon is an unwise thing to do, no matter how much smarter than it he might think himself to be. 

“Do you have any new information for me on Moriarty?”

“The demon Moriarty is, as I told you, no longer in existence. His name has been banished from the records and has been forgotten by all but a rare few. More likely the demon in question has been using the name to throw off his pursuers, like yourself.”

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock waves a hand in annoyance and mutters, “Yes, fine, then find out which demon on your lot is giving powers to Adepts to gather souls for him.”

“It will be done,” mutters the demon darkly, not liking the request, but unable to refuse it.

“And there's one other thing.” 

The demon's head, for the lack of a better term, lifts and tilts inquiringly at Sherlock's addendum, noting, “This is different. Something else you cannot determine for yourself, small mortal?”

“There is a man. John Watson. He appears to be human, appears to be completely human, and yet there's something about him that suggests he is something quite a bit... more. I already know that he is a Sensitive, but I believe there is more beyond that. I want you to look into him without alerting him or anyone else to the fact. You are not to harm him or anyone else in your search for this information.”

“I see. And what will you give me to assist me with this nebulous search?”

With a soft sigh, Sherlock steps over to the worktable and pulls free an oatmeal coloured jumper from a bag before crossing back over to the circle. He's already purchased one almost identical to it to ruin utterly in an experiment to explain the original's absence. Sherlock is fairly certain that if John knew he was giving his favourite jumper to a demon as the means to look further into just who and what he is he would be rather peeved.

“Here,” he offers, tossing the jumper into the circle where it is caught in one clawed hand. “It's quite possibly his favourite possession. I think it has some sentimental value or some such nonsense attached to it. It should aid you in your search.”

The demon sniffs the fabric, a strange glint coming into his gaze as he hisses, “Yes, indeed - I do believe I will find it quite... useful.” The shadows roil and coil about before Melmoth asks, “What have you already determined about him?”

“In watching and studying him I've been able to ascertain that he is not any obvious supernatural creature. I've done several magical studies upon him in his sleep that have turned up nothing. He's not a demon or a shapeshifter nor is he a selkie or a vampire. He's not an elf or creature of the Fae. He's not a kitsune, pooka, or wendigo. I'm fairly certain that he's not a werewolf, or if he is, he is unlike any that I've ever known, with no interest in finding a pack and no compulsion to change or even be out on the full moon. Not that they forcibly change on the moon day any longer, but the desire is still there and they generally prefer a night out on the town to one spent inside reading a good book.”

Inhaling the jumper deeply, the demon makes a sound that is halfway between a growl and a gurgle and wholly disconcerting before agreeing, “This John Watson is no werewolf. I will look into him and see if there is anything there beyond what he appears to be. You say that he is a Sensitive. A weak one?”

“No, a very powerful one, so you will have to be careful not to reveal yourself to him.”

A derisive snort causes the air within the circle to roil heatedly. “Simple enough.”

“Don't take him lightly or for granted. He may not possess my level of keen intellect and observational skills, but he is a soldier and a doctor and no fool. If you make yourself obvious, he _will_ see you.”

“He will _not_ see me unless I will him to see me. And until I know what he is, I have no interest in revealing myself. It is bad enough that you are privy to my person.” Growling in annoyance, the demon spits on the ground and asks, “How is it that _you_ of all people have my name?”

A sardonic smile flashes across Sherlock's lips. “You are not the only keeper of secret knowledge. In my journeys and studies I have come across a number of sources that have given me access to the true names of a number of demons. But yours was the most promising. Ancient and knowledgeable – once the Great Keeper of Names. Most impressive.”

“Indeed. I am.... most impressive,” the demon concurs, twining about restlessly as he asks, “Are we done here? May I depart?”

It's been a long day and Sherlock has to admit to himself that he's actually tired for a change. There's nothing more that he can do now that he has summoned Melmoth and given him his commands. Well, there is research to be done – there is always research to be done, but for the moment there is nothing pressing until tomorrow.

“You may depart. I will call you again for a report on your progress. Until then, do not think to cross me, Melmoth. I hold your name in the palm of my hand and in my mind and I can destroy you if I so desire.”

“Your power is known and understood. I shall be back upon the appointed hour.” With a crackle and hiss, the blackened air flashes as if housing a small electrical storm and as quickly as the darkness arrives it is banished once again with nothing but the faint scent of brimstone on the air and scorch marks on the floor to indicate the demon was ever there.

A soft chime catches Sherlock's attention and crossing over to the worktable he picks up his mobile and checks his texts, a small smile curling his lips. “Well. Speak of the devil...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas writeaddict and AgentTonya and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> Thanks to my readers for your patience with waiting for this chapter. Hopefully I'll be back on schedule now. 
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	6. Chapter 6

The day went from bad to worse. Sure enough a body had been picked up by the funeral home and taken to the crematorium, and as far as anyone could tell, that body was none other than Cadogan West rather than the intended Mr. Menendez. John felt a headache coming on just as soon as he'd heard the news and Anthea acted like once she found out who was responsible for the mix up, heads would be decapitated right there in the morgue. At least they'd be prepared to deal with the bodies.

The one silver lining, and it was a slim one, was the confirmation that the blood sample collected at the third house did, in fact, match Westie's DNA. A positive match with less than positive results. A team of forensic specialists were now sweeping the residence for anything else they might find– fingerprints, hair, skin samples, anything and everything that might determine whether Westie had been there for any length of time. Perhaps, if they were extremely lucky, they might find a DNA match with their murderer as well. But considering the number of people who had lived in that place over the past year, plus security and cleaning crews - not to mention John and Anthea as well - there were a lot of matches to be cancelled out and even if they found a sample that didn't match any existing known persons, the chances that they would find a DNA match in a criminal database somewhere seemed woefully slim.

Exhausted and hungry, John realized that he'd gone the whole day with only breakfast, his stomach growling menacingly at him. And if he knew Sherlock, the detective had spent the whole day likewise embroiled in whatever research had him so captivated and was unlikely to have eaten. After a quick text to Sherlock and then a short debate about the importance of eating, John made them a reservation at Angelo's for dinner.

At first he was too tired and Sherlock was too preoccupied for there to be much conversation between them. Angelo happily filled in the gaps, greeting them both enthusiastically with hugs and shoulder claps, sitting them down at 'their' table and once again putting a 'romantic' candle between them, smiling broadly as if he had hooked them up in the first place. If that wasn't awkward enough, John additionally kept finding himself getting distrait as well, a strange itching all along the nape of his neck, as if he were being watched. But whenever he turned to look there was no one in sight – n o menacing presence to warrant such a feeling of discomfort.

Silence reined once Angelo departed and John was grateful when the food arrived to cover for the lack of conversation. Which, of course, was precisely when Sherlock decided it was time to chat.

“Well?”

John paused with a fork full of penne arrabbiata half way up to his mouth, the candle on the table flickering and casting lights and shadows against Sherlock's impassive face. Ignoring his plate of bolognese, Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, elbows on the table as he leant forward, quicksilver eyes taking in John's appearance and weighing it for whatever it might be worth. 

Uneasy with the sudden examination, John gruffly replies, “Well, what?”

With a soft huff of annoyance, Sherlock lifts his gaze to the ceiling for only a fraction of a moment before pointing out, “You insisted that I come to dinner and threatened to get Mycroft to find me if I didn't. You clearly want my input on the case which, I'm sure, has you completely stumped.”

“Oh, ta, thanks muchly for the vote of confidence.”

“It isn't a vote for anything, simply an acknowledgment that _you_ are not _me_ , and if Mycroft felt he needed my expertise on solving this mystery then clearly you will not be able to solve it without my assistance.” He shrugs and John's eyes are drawn to an odd mark on the back of Sherlock's hand. Is that... paint? “So out with it. Tell me what you've learned so far and I'll tell you what you've got wrong.”

Laying down his fork, John studies Sherlock for a moment before reaching for his glass of wine and taking a sip. “Right. Fair enough. You're right in that I haven't managed to solve the case after studying the evidence for five minutes, but I _have_ made some significant progress.” 

“Continue.”

“Well, we interviewed Westie's fiancée first. Nothing of use there. She didn't know where he went or why and he didn't say anything to her beforehand. She didn't even know his real position at the MOD. Girl was beside herself, insistent that Westie was innocent of any sort of wrong-doing.”

“Hmm, yes, of course she was. And then?”

His chest puffs a little with pride as John replies, “Well, I was able to determine that Westie was not on the train but _on_ the train, since there wasn't enough blood at the site of the incident and the tracks curved just after the point where the body was found. Perfect momentum for a body to roll from atop a moving train. Happened in Afghanistan if you were sleeping without someone to keep an eye on you.”

“Hmmmm. Not bad. Obvious, but not bad,” Sherlock comments, though John can tell that he's just the tiniest bit impressed by the bright glint in his eyes and the slight upward curve of the corner of his mouth.

“Then things got interesting. Anthea managed to determine possible locations and we found a spot of blood at one of them, a rental property owned by Baskerville Incorporated. Turns out it was a place that Westie once stayed at and knew about. But when we went to Barts to examine the body, it was gone.”

“Gone?”

“The belief is that it was taken 'accidentally', mistaken for another body that was due for cremation. Fortunately there were samples available to determine that the blood from the house was in fact Westie's blood, but other than that we've hit something of a dead-end.” John's head tilts to one side as he hastily takes a bite of his dinner, chewing it thoughtfully before adding, “But I think it's all terribly convenient and not just a little suspicious. I never got to see the body and then it just accidentally gets cremated before I can double-check the autopsy? And no one can seem to find Dr. Caruther now, he performed the autopsy, to confirm the results with him.”

His food is growing cold, but Sherlock seems to have no interest in eating it as he nods, his gaze losing focus, as if he were studying something unseen before him. “Agreed. Highly unlikely and very suspicious.” Clearing his throat, Sherlock's gaze returns to the present, fastening onto John's features as he announces, “This is clearly an inside job.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Baskerville is a pet project of Mycroft's. Top secret scientific research and development. Everything strikes far too close to the Magic Operations Department. Westie was a loyal employee, unlikely to jeopardize his family and fiancée by committing treason. He didn't steal the device. Someone else in the department stole it from him with the intent of framing him for its loss. This means that the murderer is most likely either someone who worked with Westie or at least someone who knew him personally. When Westie realised the device was missing he was able to deduce who had taken it, confronted them, and died for his troubles.” Clucking softly, Sherlock points out, “This is why one shouldn't be a hero, John. More often than not it simply costs you your life and the lives of others. If he had simply reported the theft and his suspicions to Mycroft, the matter would have been dealt with and none of this would have happened.”

“Yes, but what if he didn't know who to trust? More than one person could have been in on the theft. And it's not like one can just generally call Mycroft up on the phone.” 

“Oh, if only that were true,” Sherlock sighs tragically. “This was not a theft of convenience. Westie would have had no reason to take the Prometheus drive out of the MOD, even though he had clearance to do so. Someone on the inside knew the system well enough and knew Westie's habits and codes intimately enough to be able to fake his DNA signature and security clearance in order to remove the drive.”

“You don't count. And by association neither do I, I suppose. But this could have been more than just a single culprit. I imagine that the MOD has some pretty serious security checks in place to make sure that nothing can be taken out without the proper authorization. All the more reason why someone higher up may have been involved. Westie might have made a report, but to the wrong person. Reporting it may have been what got him killed.”

“Possibly, but more likely he took responsibility for the thing that was his to guard and protect and went after the culprit directly rather than risk punishment for being derelict in his duties. Believe me, you do not want to be the one to 'fail' Mycroft Holmes, even if you do make things right in the end. It would have meant termination of his job at the very least.”

“And at the worst?”

“Termination of his life?” At John's faint gasp, Sherlock ameliorates, “No, probably not that. Too messy and hard to explain, and then there's all the funeral benefits and life insurance to be paid out. No, it's more likely he would have been sent to the worst post available with the worst pay available and no option to 'quit' his job. That would be a far worse punishment than death, don't you think?”

“I think that you should eat some of your dinner before it gets entirely cold.” John cannot deny that Mycroft would be harsh indeed in his punishment of failure, but the idea that the threat of his wrath might have cost Westie his life puts John entirely off of his meal. He only eats enough to encourage Sherlock to eat, both of them leaving a fair quantity of their dinner still upon the plates.

*****

Walking through the front door, John stops and sniffs the air suspiciously before asking Sherlock, “What the _hell_ is that?”

“Ahhh, I suspect my experiment is complete. Excellent.” Bounding up the stairs two at a time, Sherlock lets out a soft crow of delight that, in John's book, does not bode well. “Bloody hell,” he mutters to himself, taking the stairs at a quick but more sedate pace than his flatmate. Upon entering the flat proper, however, he looks around and barks out loudly, “Bloody hell!”

The room is filled with what looks like some sort of miasma. John crosses over to the window and throws open the sash, despite the cold air outside, in the hopes of clearing some of the smoke within. “Sherlock, what have you done?”

Turning about, John stares as Sherlock holds aloft John's oatmeal jumper Or rather, the remains of his jumper. Crossing over to his flatmate, John asks the question, though he honestly doesn't need to. “Is that my jumper? Did you actually use _my_ jumper in your bloody experiment?”

“It was necessary John. It was the only article of clothing in the house that matched that of the victim nearly perfectly between fiber materials, construction and weight.” Sherlock looks positively delighted as he turns the charred and disintegrated article of clothing this way and that to take in the extensive amount of damage. “It's a perfect match and narrows down the possible source to a basilisk. Definitely a basilisk!” The bloody git is preening. Actually preening.

Pointing a finger at Sherlock, John starts to shake it, growling, “My wardrobe is not up for grabs. You are going to...” and then his gaze catches something else that causes him to gape and stare before glaring at Sherlock and asking in bitten off tones, “Is that my diary?”

Sherlock glances down and frowns before replying, “Isn't that obvious? It certainly isn't mine. I would never indulge in such a tedious and pointless habit.”

Gritting his teeth John flexes his jaw before asking, “Yes, that is obvious. What isn't so obvious is why it is downstairs instead of up in my room?”

“Because I was reading it.”

“You were reading it. My diary. My personal and _private_ diary.”

“Oh, come now, John. If you meant it to be private you would have done a better job of hiding it.”

“Hiding... I shouldn't have to _hide_ my personal diary. Sherlock, there are rules about such things. Clearly understood social rules that even you cannot be ignorant of. And the first rule about your flatmate's diary is that it is not to be read. Ever!” Shaking his head in amazement, John asks, “Why were you even reading it in the first place?”

“Bored.”

“Bored?”

“Yes, I was bored. Granted, it certainly didn't help with that at all. You really do have the most pedantic and lacklustre style of writing John. The only thing that gave it any entertainment value whatsoever was my involvement in your case studies. Which, by the way, are riddled with inaccuracies and exaggerations. And I don't much care for you mocking me.”

“Mocking you?” Just when did this become John defending his position rather than Sherlock defending his?

“Yes, going on and on about how I don't know that the Earth revolves around the sun...”

“Sherlock. That's basic knowledge. That's primary school stuff.” John knows. John remembers sitting in class with Sherlock when they talked all about the galaxy and the orbit of the planets. Sherlock even derided one of his classmates for not making the various planets on his mobile the proper size and dimensions in relation to one another.

“Look, John, it doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't matter?”

“No, for what I do it doesn't matter. The Earth could go round and round the garden like a teddy bear for all that I care.” Tapping his forehead, Sherlock clarifies, “This is my hard drive and I can't be cluttering it up with foolish nonsense that doesn't pertain to what I need to do the Work. Everything else is extraneous. I deleted it.”

John doesn't need to ask for a explanation of what Sherlock means, he's watched countless times as Sherlock has 'deleted' things in his life time. Useless things. Painful things. Whatever he decided he didn't want or need. Of course his level of success varies, but Sherlock would never let that on to anyone knowingly. But Watson would not understand this idea of deleting, so John to protect his cover asks, “Deleted it?”

“Yes! I delete anything that is unnecessary from my mind palace, just like you would delete a file from your computer. It's as simple as that.”

“I seriously doubt that it's as simple as that, but getting back to the point...” John reaches down to scoop up his diary and then points to his jumper. “Don't. Touch. My. Stuff. Don't use my clothes for experiments, no matter how important you might deem them to be. And respect my privacy.” He stands there, tall and straight and stares Sherlock dead in the eyes with all the centuries of age and power that he can muster in this human form. “I mean it. If you do anything like this again, there will be consequences. Serious consequences.” He would threaten to move out if he could, but John knows that would be a lie. He could never leave Sherlock, no matter what he might do, and that is one lie John cannot tell convincingly.

He doesn't even wait for Sherlock to reply, but stomps past him and up the stairs to his room, slamming the door in his wake. For a long time the building is silent. Sitting heavily down on his bed, John stares at his stolen diary. Thank God he never actually wrote down anything of import or the truth of his life. That was a risk he knew that he could not take and this diary was a test - a test that Sherlock failed. With a sad sigh, he lets the diary fall to the floor and stretches out on his bed.

This is why, he reminds himself. This is why he must hide the truth of who he really is from Sherlock. Because while Sherlock is a great man, he is rarely a good one. His own desires come first and foremost. He has no compunction of using man or woman according to their desert. If he knew what John really was, how much more reckless would Sherlock become? How likely would he be to experiment on John like he experimented on his jumper? To use John? To take greater risks under the bold assumption that John would be there no matter what? No, he cannot take that chance. John still has no idea what the rules of his person are. Perhaps he can endlessly save Sherlock from himself and his follies, but what if he cannot? What if there are limits? Restrictions? No. Sherlock cannot know, not only for John's sake, but for his own.

The sound of violin music wafts through the floorboards, causing John to turn his head on the pillow, listening intently. The music is gentle, regretful. An apology? Perhaps. But regardless he needs to hold strong against Sherlock. Well, as much as he has ever been able to at least. Which isn't saying much.

*****

John jerks awake with a gasp, his entire body rigid and coated in sweat. At least he didn't scream or cry out this time, though the nightmare still feels more real than not, his heart pounding a mile a minute as he tries to catch his breath and calm both his mind and body. Glancing over at the clock, he's grateful that for once the nightmare at least waited until morning. More often than not, it struck in the middle of the night and left him wrecked for sleep after. Rubbing at his eyes, John rises up and shuffles down the stairs to the bathroom for a much needed shower.

He emerges clean and calm from the bathroom with a towel about his hips before freezing at the sight of Anthea sitting on the couch in the living room. She looks him up and down in a gaze that is both assessing and unimpressed. With a heavy sigh, John asks, “Look, can you not judge me and find me lacking at this hour of the morning?” Shuffling past Anthea, John takes a moment to tuck the towel a little tighter, wishing he'd thought to bring down his bathrobe this morning. “And what are you doing here this early anyway? What if I'd still been asleep?”

“Then I would have woken you, of course. The day is not to be wasted if we are to close this case.” There's a moment's pause before she adds, “And you are not lacking, as you say. As a human your physique is perfectly adequate.”

“Perfectly adequate. You smooth talker, you,” John rejoins from the kitchen as he sets the kettle on the stove. “Care for a cuppa? Or is tea too human for you?”

“Tea would be acceptable, thank you. It's one of the few human social refinements that I enjoy.”

“Right then, well, while that boils I'll just quickly get dressed and then you can tell me whatever it is that brings you by this early.”

With a hand gripping the towel for the sake of modesty, John quickly makes his way upstairs and gets dressed, returning only a few minutes later, hair sticking out in all directions from the fuss and muss of getting his clothes on. He's surprised to find Anthea in the kitchen, sans her device, pouring the boiling water into two mugs and adding tea bags to them, one for each of them. “Toast?” she asks John, which causes him to stop dead and stare.

Her gaze grows cool under his astonishment and not wanting to spoil the rare moment of sociability, John hastens to reply, “Yes please.”

Removing the bread from the bin, Anthea withdraws two slices and pops them into the toaster before noting, “You're surprised.”

“Um, well, yes actually, a bit.”

“I'm not a machine. I may not be human, but I do have a certain understanding of human needs.” A tiny smile touches her lips as she adds, “Especially when it comes to breakfast.”

Their gazes meet and John suddenly understands, the two of them at the same time giving the answer to the unspoken question. “Mycroft.”

She almost perfectly mimics the elder Holmes as Anthea intones profoundly, “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” Her voice switches back as she adds, “But apparently so is lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner.”

John can't stop the chuckle that escapes him and Anthea returns his mirth with a very tiny smile.

“So, what did Sherlock say?”

John lifts one brow and counters playfully, “What makes you think Sherlock had anything to say?”

“Since when has Sherlock not had everything to say?”

“Point. Well, I told him about our adventures yesterday and in his opinion the job is an inside one, and a planned one, with Westie being completely innocent of anything except knowing who stole the Prometheus drive and deciding to confront them to get it back, rather than report them.” His head cocks to one side as he asks, “So, how do you want to proceed from here?”

Anthea purses her lips thoughtfully and pulls out her mobile, talking through their options. “A shut down of the MOD is both untimely and impractical. Too much time has passed and the drive is most certainly not going to be on the premises any longer. It's also doubtful that the thief is either, so the first step seems to be to determine who had access to Westie and knew his true position and importance as well as what his friends and acquaintances are, and who just conveniently has called in absent or simply did not shown up for work.”

“Do you think they would be that obvious? Skip town with the drive or avoid work in order to sell it?”

Anthea doesn't bother glancing up from her phone as she replies, “Staying involves as great an amount of risk as fleeing. Fleeing might reveal their identity sooner, but if they stayed they would almost certainly be caught with no chance of escape. Depends upon the personality of the individual: whether they have cause to believe themselves invulnerable and untraceable, have reasons to want to stay despite the risk, and simple sheer stupidity. Fleeing might reveal their identity, but they may have taken steps to protect themselves from pursuit and capture.” Her brown eyes glance up as she adds, “However, they would have to have a great deal of help and magical assistance not to be found in this day and age. Mycroft's reach is long and leaving England would not be a guarantee of safety. The culprit is either very smart or very stupid.”

“Where does that leave me then?” Because obviously Anthea should take the lead now, since only she has access to the data that they're looking for. 

“Sniffer dog,” Anthea replies bluntly. “It will be much faster if we search the premises with you present than not. You're the only Sensitive that we have that is powerful enough to register the Prometheus drive.”

“I'll politely remind you that neither Mycroft nor the MOD _have_ me. I'm helping you out of my own free will.”

The blithely nonchalant look that Anthea gives him, complete with a slow blink, causes the hairs on the back of John's neck to rise up. “Of course you are, Dr. Watson. You are entirely your own man.” 

How she can say those words and make it sound like she's saying the exact opposite is beyond John. Clearing his throat, he suggests, “I think we should interview Liz Neill again. Even though she didn't know what Westie did at the MOD, she may have known his friends and acquaintances there. They might have come over or met for drinks together at some point.” The toaster pops up, as if in punctuation of his statement.

Nodding, Anthea turns to deal with John’s breakfast, replying, “Then that is what you'll do while I return to the office and begin a discreet internal investigation.” Tea and toast are proffered and nodding his head in thanks, John turns to search for his phone while munching on a slice.

His search is resolved when his mobile starts ringing. Sherlock? Mycroft? No, Sherlock prefers to text, and Mycroft is more likely to check in with Anthea than John at this juncture. Reaching into the pocket of his hanging jacket John extracts his mobile and frowns at the words there. Unknown caller. Flicking it on he raises the device to his ear.

“Hello?”

“D-doctor Watson?” The voice was upset and tremulous, much as it had been the last time they had spoken. 

The coincidence of their conversation and her calling has John flummoxed for a moment. “Liz? Liz, are you alright?”

There is a faint scream and then a male voice speaks into the phone, low and growling. “Doctor Watson, I presume?”

John finds himself unconsciously straightening up and returning, “Captain Watson to you.” In other words, not a man to be messed with. There is a low chuckle from the other end of the line. 

“You have something that we want.”

“We. Who is we?”

“Bring it to the home of Elizabeth Neill in thirty minutes or we kill the woman.” As if in proof of that statement there is another terrified scream that is sharply cut off. 

John's instincts to protect flare up, but he holds back his reaction and grits his teeth, replying, “I don't have anything and you have nothing to gain by hurting-”

“You're wasting time. Twenty-nine minutes. Alone. Or we will kill her.” The line goes dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> Just as a heads up, Chapter 7 will most likely get posted some time after Thanksgiving depending upon my timing and the availability of my lovely betas. :-)
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	7. Chapter 7

Anthea places a call as they pull on coats before stepping outside and within minutes a black car pulls up in front of the flat. Without a moment to lose, they quickly slip into the back seat as the driver pulls away from the kern. John eyes the small box that lies on the cushion between them, one brow lifting in silent inquiry. 

“Here.” Opening the box, Anthea reaches inside and pulls out a gun, pressing it into John's hand. 

Looking down at it incredulously, he raises his gaze to the changeling, one brow nearly touching his hairline. “A gun? A _gun_? We're heading into a battle with who knows what and you're giving me a gun?”

“Think, Dr. Watson. As far as anyone is concerned, you're just a war veteran and an ordinary human. They aren't going to expect you to be having anything more esoteric than a handgun, and even that is something of a stretch. The things holding Ms. Neill probably know that you're a Sensitive but nothing more dangerous to them. That's why they called you and not me. They don't perceive you to be a threat and they know that you'll probably bring some kind of weapon. They'll be expecting it. What they're not expecting is a gun loaded with silver-tipped, blessed bullets. If the silver or the iron in the bullet doesn't hurt them, the holy water and blessings will.”

“Okay, okay, that's good. That's very good,” John returns, head bobbing up and down. Once upon a time he would have charged into a fray of demons or whatever he might have to defeat without any hesitation whatsoever. But now John has two people to protect; he has to get John Watson his soul back and he has to keep an eye on Sherlock. He can't do either of those things if he gets himself killed now. He's learned first hand just how fragile a human body is and how all too easy it is to damage. He fingers the gun briefly, his hand slipping into the grip easily, comfortably, getting used to the feel and the weight of the weapon before he tucks it into the small of his back and asks, “And where exactly are you going to be during this whole thing?”

Anthea smiles, a smile that she must have learned from Mycroft because it is just barely sincere with a dangerous edge to it that causes a shiver to trickle down John's spine. “Oh, don't worry, I'll be close behind and waiting for just the right opportunity to step in. All you have to do is keep them distracted and wait for my signal.”

“And what, exactly, will be your signal?”

“Oh, you'll know it when you see it. It will be unmistakable.”

“Great. Lovely. You know, just a little more detail would make me feel a _whole_ lot better about this whole plan.”

“There is no plan. We don't know what we are facing, or if Ms. Neill is alive or dead. We have nothing to work with, so we're going to have to improvise. I'm sure you've faced similar situations in Afghanistan, have you not?”

That much is true. War is unpredictable and anything can happen at any moment. Intelligence, training, and preparation can only take you so far. On top of all that you need to have good instincts, the ability to make quick and accurate decisions, and the ability to stay calm under fire. John and Watson both have these skills in spades. Jaw flexing, John automatically straightens into his military stance, giving Anthea a brusque nod. “Whatever you do, make sure you get Liz out of there. The civilian is our first priority.”

“Ahhh, there's the soldier,” she purrs with a wry smile. “You ready then?”

“As much as I'll ever be.”

The car parks a street away from Elizabeth Neill's flat to be less obvious. Anthea turns to John and reaches out to catch one of this hands, as he's exiting the vehicle. The doctor startles at the familiar gesture and turns to look at her. “Right then, off you go. Remember, I won't be far away. My job is to protect you and protect you I will, Dr. Watson.” Her lips curl into a small smirk. “If I don't I'll have Mycroft to answer to and you can imagine how little I would care to fail him in this assignment. Oh,” she adds, reaching into the box again. “You're also going to need this.”

A small golden object hurtles through the air between them and John automatically catches it with one hand. Fingers uncurl to reveal a golden egg-shaped object with exotic runes and markings carved over its entire surface. Glancing up at Anthea's face, he asks, “What's this?”

“A Prometheus drive, of course. It will buy you some time as they will try to ascertain if is the correct drive before taking it.”

“Oh. Good idea.”

“I know. You'll find that I'm full of them, Dr. Watson. Now, on your way. We're almost out of time.”

*****

He feels ridiculous, knocking at the door as it he was just coming by for a casual visit, hands in his pockets. The door opens to reveal a man standing there, or at least what looks to the normal eye like a man. But John can see it for what it really is, a demon in disguise, tendrils of darkness wafting around the human frame as if smoke was leaking from its pores. It smiles at John, the teeth perfectly normal except that they all come to sharp points.

“Ahhhh, Mr. Watssssson. Pleasssse, come in.”

Add a long forked tongue to that description.

“Ta,” John replies, as if he weren't just walking into a deadly trap, and steps in past the demon. The door closes and before he can even move a smoking arm wraps about his throat in a chokehold as the other hand slithers over his body, causing John to snarl in warning. 

“Shut up, human and sssssstand sssstill. Do you think we are ssso foolish assss to not sssssearch you for weaponsssss?”

The demon could asphyxiate him to death without even trying, or snap his neck in half. So John lifts his hands to either side of his head in a gesture of surrender and submits to the vile touch of the creature. The gun is pulled from the waistband of his jeans, the demon looking at it before laughing and waving it in front of John's face. “Did you really think that thisssss would be any kind of threat to usssss?”

“Well, I didn't know who I was dealing with, now did I? I'd be stupid to come defenseless.”

“You were ssssstupid to come, period!” snaps the demon, reaching into John's coat pocket and pulling out the Prometheus drive. “Ahhh, exccccellent!” John is flung to one side, going down hard but rolling into it such that he rises up a few feet away. 

Flexing his jaw and fingers, John cracks his neck once and demands, “Where is Elizabeth?”

The demon paws at the device, frowning when nothing happens. Clearly not the sharpest blade in the kitchen. Thrusting the object toward John, the demon snarls, “Open it!”

“It's not an Easter egg,” John snaps back. “You can't just open it and find a chocolate treasure inside. It contains data, not an object, you idiot.”

Hearing a sound behind him John immediately shifts, putting his back to a wall as another demon walks into the living room, seemingly human but with fire coming out of his eyes, nose, and ears, a faint shimmering of heat hovering just inches away from his skin. “Asgoth, you moron, give that to me!”

The egg is tossed to the flame demon, who studies the runes on the outside of it and then produces a black cylinder that he sets the drive on, not unlike placing an egg upon an egg cup. Hands move over the drive as he begins to growl, the words guttural and gross, the demonic spell causing every hair on John's body to stand up on end. He rubs his arms uncomfortably and turns to Asgoth, asking again, angrily this time, “Where is Elizabeth?”

The second demon reaches out to touch the Prometheus drive with a low chuckle that turns into a scream of fury as an arc of electricity sparks from the drive and crackles over his hand and arm viciously, causing him to writhe in agony until his fingers finally are able to unclench and let the golden egg drop to the floor. Whirling on John, he snaps, “OPEN IT!”

“WHERE IS ELIZABETH?”

Snapping his fingers at Asgoth, the flame demon commands, “Get the woman.”

“Get her yourself, Rethca! I'm tired of you bossing me around like you're in charge!”

Snarling, Retcha turns and calls out, “Darthou, Sallendas! Bring the woman!”

Two more demons appear and John half wonders just what they thought they would be up against when they signed on four demons to take on one human being. Rounding the corner the next two demons are as distinctive from each other as the first two, the one on the right oozing a sickly green pus from its pores and the one on the left crackling faintly with white dancing sparks of electricity. Elizabeth is held between them, tears streaming down her cheeks, barely holding back her sobs. Even though she can't see what they truly are, she is more than aware of her predicament, the knives and weapons adorning them sufficiently terrifying.

In all honesty, John is mystified as to how they're going to get Elizabeth safely out of here, but he stands strong and assured as she rushes forward to embrace him, finally breaking down and sobbing. 

“Dr. Watson, I don't know what to do! They want something that Westie had when he died, but I don't know anything about it!”

Patting her back gently, John glares at the demons over her shoulder and murmurs gently, “It's alright. I have what they want and they'll let you go shortly, I promise.”

The crackling demon reaches out and grabs Liz away from John roughly, shoving her onto the couch as Retcha barks, “No one is going anywhere until you unlock this device!”

Licking his lower lip uncertainly, John looks at the demon, at a total loss of what to do. Where is Anthea? Elizabeth is here, the demons are all here, and John is running out of ways to stall them. Hardening his jaw, John straightens up and in his most commanding voice he orders, “Let the woman go and I'll unlock the device for you. Not before.”

“Not a chance, human! Open it now or we slit her throat open!”

Shit. Well, that didn't go as planned. With the threat of violence accelerated, John curses silently as the slime demon steps in to raise a blade to Liz's throat. Liz cries softly cries out in panic, blue eyes desperately seeking out John's, pleading for him to save her. The only problem is that John doesn't have the slightest idea of how to rescue her from this situation. It's like he's back in that dark tunnel, railing at the glass enclosure with Watson's sister dying while he remains helpless. Still, he needs to buy them some more time.

“Alright!” he snaps, holding out his hand for the Prometheus device. “Give it to me and I'll open it, but back away from her. I won't do it with you threatening her like that.” The demon with the blade looks to Retcha, who nods, permitting him to back up. Retcha rubs its clawed hand against his chest, growling, “Pick it up yourself,” clearly not wanting anything to do with touching the drive lest it attack him once again.

Reaching down John hesitates for a moment before curling his fingers about the device. Cool to the touch, nothing happens to him as he lifts up its heavy weight and rolls it into the palm of his hand. John takes a deep breath and lets it out before studying the symbols on the drive's surface. They are not familiar to him, but it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that he looks like he knows what he's doing. Cupping the device between his hands, John intones gravely, “Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogoves and the mome raths outgrabe...”

He only knows that something is happening because suddenly the air on his arms is standing on end, a faint current of magic flickering through the room before the air around the couch splits in two. Like a photograph cut in half the cushions fold backward into the mysterious gap. Two hands abruptly reach out and grab Elizabeth from where she is seated and pull her back through the slit, the planes of reality folding back together seamlessly in her passing. Both human and demons are each so astonished that none of them move for a second after the moment has passed. Then suddenly it is a whirlwind of motion as John chucks the egg at Retcha who instinctively grabs at it, receiving a blinding and violent shock for its efforts while John lunges and rolls toward the gun that was left on the side table. He half expects to feel talons digging into his back, his human reactions and speed incomparable to that of a demon horde, but the air sparkles around them and suddenly Anthea is in the room once more, the slice in reality closing up behind her as she takes on Darthou and Sallendas, two whirling swords in her hands. The demons are barely able to bring up their defenses, let alone attack her. That leaves two demons for John. 

Spinning around John takes aim at Retcha, who has finally managed to drop the Prometheus drive and is charging at him. Two rounds go off, both hitting the demon square in the chest and it goes down hard, squealing a high-pitched inhuman screech as it flails in agony, his motions so quick they blur. Blinking, John tries to take aim at Darthou and Sallendas, but each of them are likewise moving to fast to see and Anthea is matching them easily. That just leaves the serpentine demon and as John turns again to try and find it something smashes into the back of his head. Falling to the ground, John curses himself before a kick strikes his ribs, flinging him over onto his side. He curls up into a foetal position as he tries to take a shot and misses.

“Ssssstupid human! Do you think you can hurt me? Ssssssso sssssstupid..... aaargggh!”

Demons really shouldn't talk. John's eyes might not be willing to focus at the moment, but his hearing is good enough that he can tell the demon is right in front of him. So he points the gun in the direction of sibilant words and fires. The cry of pain is enough to tell him that he at least clipped the damned thing. Another kick to his hand, however, indicates that he didn't bring it down and now he's weaponless, the gun skittering away from his fingers. If that wasn't bad enough, a vicious snarl from behind him makes John realize that he's made a terrible mistake. Never assume. Why did he assume there were only four demons? He feels sharp teeth sinking into the collar of his jacket just as something leaps over him, loud shrieks following shortly after. He desperately tries to hang onto consciousness as he feels himself being dragged over the floor, but John's head is determined not to cooperate. Darkness, along with something else entirely, takes him.

*****

Consciousness returns slowly in fits and starts, the sensation of being dragged over cement and gravel fading in and out of reality. In a brief moment of clarity John thinks to himself, 'This is going pear shaped... why did everything have to go pear shaped? What was so terrible about the shape of a pear?' John's fingers curl haplessly, looking for the barrel of a gun that was no longer there. What was he thinking? He was taken, captured; did he really think the demons would let him keep his weapon? Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have got something else useful from Anthea. Surely the MOD had some James Bond styled magical weapons? Holy water watches? Shroud of Turin turtlenecks?

Ugh. There is something wet and sticky on his face. Blood? No, wait, something was lapping over his nose, eyes, and brow. It would be nice, comforting even, if it wasn't actually rather gross. 

“MoonMoon, stop it. Licking his face is _not_ helping,” said a somewhat cross voice. Someone, MoonMoon presumably, retorted with an empathetic whine.

Licking? Someone was licking his face? John's eyes opened, only to find bright blue eyes, a pink nose at the end of a long white muzzle, and an even pinker tongue swiping out despite the voice of its owner declaring the uselessness of such an action.

“Augh!” John recoiled from the massive jaws opening in front of him and rolled over. His head then exploded with a thousand small lights, making him whimper and close his eyes. He could hear the sound of the dog sitting upright, tail wagging as it barked once, sharp and bright, as if to say, 'Ha! There, he's awake! Told you so.'

“Yeah, yeah,” the voice groused, “don't get all full of yourself now.” A hand drops to John's shoulder shaking slightly as the voice asks, “Hey, you okay there? Sorry about MoonMoon. Seems that she's taken something of a shine to you.”

Eyelids reluctantly peel back to stare into an unfamiliar face as John's brain scrambles to recollect what was going on. He remembers the phone call, the flat, Elizabeth's terrified face, the demons and oh SHIT the demons! Bolting upright, John jerks away from the person before him, back hitting a wall as he scrambles to get away despite the pounding of his head, only to find his hands tied together as well as his feet. Shit. Out of the frying pan and into the fire?

“Hey hey, easy there. Don't want you banged up any more than you already are or she might not make the exchange.”

She? Exchange? Blinking rapidly, John's eyes dart about the darkened space, trying to find a way out as hands gently steady him regardless of his efforts to escape the man's touch.

“Hey, hey, I said to take it easy. You got quite the nasty knock on your head there. If MoonMoon hadn't gone in after we told her not to, you probably wouldn't still be alive, so you owe us one, kinda. Now just relax, it's okay, we're not going to hurt you.”

A soft whine to his right has John turning his head to look at MoonMoon. The enormous white dog is wagging its tail, tongue lagging out of her mouth cheerfully. No wait, not a dog. A wolf. The white wolf cocks her head at him, her eyes studying him in return. An intelligence lurks there in that glance and makes John look at her harder, more intently. No not just a wolf. A _were_ wolf. His head turns to stare at the frowning man crouched before him. Jet black hair hangs lank about the man's sharp features and there's a hint of a tattoo on his neck peeking out from the collar of his shirt, another hint of ink at his wrists. His dark brown eyes don't regard John with kindness or compassion however, but rather with suspicion and determination.

John quickly reviews in his mind what he knows about werewolves. They were always a rather secretive bunch and years of persecution had lead to their breed of supernaturals being uncommonly difficult to 'see' for what they truly are. To all but the most powerful of Sensitive eyes they were wolves in wolf form, humans in human form, with no hint of one when in the other. How ironic, that he should have more in common with his captors than his friends. 

John's mouth opens to say something and then snaps shut again. A Sensitive who can see what they are is nothing but a threat to them. If he reveals himself, he doubts that MoonMoon will continue to sit there smiling at him so happily. More likely, her snow white muzzle will be coated in blood from tearing his throat out.

As such, John feigns ignorance and reaches out to MoonMoon, letting her play the role of dog by sniffing his hand and showing acceptance before he tangles his fingers into her white fur and scritches her behind the ears. “Well, then, it seems that I owe you one, MoonMoon.” As he awkwardly pets her, his eyes flicker over to the man crouched before him. “So who are you then? My saviour? My jailor?”

“Your ransomer,” is the reply, which causes John to bark of laughter.

“You're kidding. So you kidnapped me for ransom from a ransom kidnapping exchange point?”

It seems that the man is not without humour himself, a wry smile touching his lips as he shrugs and concurs, “The situation is not without irony, I'll grant you.” His gaze sobers and narrows, “Where is the Prometheus drive?”

With a soft sigh, John retorts, “You think that I know?”

“I think that you _have_ it.”

“Those demons thought the same thing, and you saw what that got them. Nothing.”

“No, what we saw is that you fought like demons yourselves and most likely brought them a fake drive to buy yourself some time. The only question now is where the real drive is.”

Huh. Chalk one up to werewolves being smarter than demons.

“You're right. It wasn't the real one. We don't have the real one. It was a fake to try to dupe them. You might recall that I spent a fair amount of time telling them over and over again that I couldn't open it.”

“While your assistant stealthily snuck in and ambushed them. Not really what we consider to be compelling information. Of course you brought a fake. You wouldn't sacrifice the Prometheus drive for a mere mortal.”

“Why not? I'm a 'mere' mortal.” This is his opportunity, and John adds pointedly here, “Which I'm gathering you are not? Because if you were, you wouldn't be interested in the drive.”

The werewolf nods his head, agreeing before rejoining, “You are no 'mere' mortal either. They wouldn't have sent you after the drive if you didn't have something that distinguishes you.” His head tilts to the side as he sizes John up, sniffing the air thoughtfully as he notes, “But whatever you are, you hide it well.”

“A Sensitive,” John announces, because a bit of honesty right now might gain him some ground and trust. His head tilts to the side in turn as he asks boldly, “And you?”

“None of your business.”

Right. Not surprising.

Glancing around him, John squints to try to see something in the darkness before asking, “Where are we?”

“That's none of your business either.”

Wrinkling his nose, John cranes his head back and stares before noting, “Well, some sort of basement, that much is clear from the damp and the chill. But it's too big to be a basement. Walls aren't right. One of the abandoned underground tubes then?”

The man leans back, brows lifting as he compliments, “Very good, can you guess which one?”

John scrutinizes the space and catches sight of what looks like a doorway. The wood and glass are dusty and worn and, more importantly, look antique and very old. Tentatively John inquires, “Down Street Station?”

“Oh, very good, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes must be rubbing off on you.”

“Wait, you know who I am? You know Sherlock Holmes?”

“There's little we don't know about the streets of London, especially the Underground. Survival of the fittest.”

“Well, since you know my name and we both know MoonMoon's, do you mind sharing yours with me your name so I have something I can address you by other than 'hey you'?”

One corner of the man's mouth quirks upward as he ponders for a moment before offering, “You can call me Ink.”

A soft growl from MoonMoon stops their conversation. Rising up to his feet, Ink stands next to her, staring into the darkness before he calls out, “You can stop right there. We're not going to fall for any of your tricks.”

There's a sharp sound of metal against metal and then John gasps as a cold blade is pressed against his throat. He didn't even see the man move, he was so fast.

“Throw the Prometheus drive on the ground where I can see it and then leave. Once we've ascertained it's the real one, we'll return your friend to you.”

Stepping into a dim shaft of light, Anthea studies the man, her gaze flickering over to where MoonMoon stands between them, the wolf growling deep in her throat, hackles raised. The message is clear. Make a move toward the man and two things will happen: MoonMoon will attack and John will die.

“You're new to this sort of thing, aren't you? That's really not how this kind of thing works. As nice as it would be, hostage exchanges don't really work on an honour system. Besides,” she lifts her hands up to show they are empty and replies flatly, “we don't have the drive.”

MoonMoon steps forward, the pitch of her growl growing deeper and louder. The man curses darkly under his breath as he returns sharply, “Then it would appear that we have a serious problem at hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	8. Chapter 8

That niggling sensation is back, like sparks dancing along the edge of his skin. But considering their current situation, a knife at his throat and Anthea apparently playing hard ball with the werewolves, John figures it's just nerves at this point.

Shaking her head, Anthea leaves her hands visible as she replies peacefully, “What we have is an opportunity. I would like to offer you a pact, werewolf.”

Oh shit. Sure enough both man and beast are growling now, MoonMoon stepping forward, her entire body one tightly wound spring just waiting to be released to draw blood. It's hard to believe just a few minutes ago she was licking John's face and smiling at him. There is nothing of the sweet dog in her now; there is only the primal wolf readying for the kill.

John clears his throat; as if the innocuous and wholly human sound might defuse the situation they are currently in. “Anthea, no offense but are you _trying_ to get us offed?”

Anthea's reply is calm, almost non-committal. “Not at all, Dr. Watson. I merely see an opportunity to offer the werewolves of London something far more valuable than the Prometheus drive.”

“And what is that?” asks Ink, the blade against John's neck not moving so much as a millimeter. Steady and implacable, this one. John doesn't even dare swallow for fear that he will nick himself.

“Mycroft Holmes wishes to make amends for the Great Culling and offer the werewolves of London and indeed all of the werewolves of England a pact and promise to not only allow them to live freely, but restitution and protection as well.”

“Oh, I _see_. The high and mighty Mycroft Holmes, the master of the Magical Operations Department, the very governmental department that ordered our extinction, thinks he can just walk in here and offer his hand to us without us biting it off?”

“Of course not. That is why I am here. I am his right hand. If you wish to 'bite me off' as you put it, then you are free to do so. But hear me out first.”

Although her stance hasn't changed, MoonMoon is no longer growling at Anthea, merely standing still and at the ready to pounce if need be. However, Anthea is making no threatening moves or gestures. She is almost like a mystic being, surrounded by an aura of calm. It takes John a moment to realize that he's not just imagining that – she is, in fact, giving off a glamour of pure diplomacy tempered with soothing emanations. “Mycroft Holmes has always abhorred the MOD's participation in the Great Culling and feels that it was a huge mistake on a multitude of levels but England was full of magical hysterics back in 1589 and it was felt that the removal of potential threats was a better course of action than the risk of them turning against the human populace.” Her head tilts to one side as she notes, “I'm sure that you know he has tried to reach out to the werewolf community on several occasions and you have ignored him at every turn.”

“And can you blame us? A trap is often baited with sweet and tender meat. We were fools to trust the MOD once; never again.” Spitting on the ground between them, Ink snarls, “And so now he sends you here to cajole us when he has already decided to plot against us after all! You act as if we are but stupid children! What about the contents of the Prometheus drive? Lists of captured werewolves being used for experimentation? Forced werewolf breeding programs? Lord knows what other atrocities could be on that thing, and yet here you stand claiming he reaches out to us in friendship.”

“I do, because everything that you have been told has been lies.”

Ink's face wrinkles in a mixture of disgust and disbelief. “Oh, that's very convenient. And just why should we believe you?”

“Two reasons. For one, I'm the one who spread those rumours on Mr. Holmes' request. Since offering an olive branch did not encourage you to show yourselves, he thought that perhaps if he brandished a stick...”

Both wolf and human snarl contemptuously, the latter pointing out, “Not exactly the best way to get on our good side or gain our trust. And the second reason?”

“I am Fae and as such I cannot lie to you. The Prometheus drive does not contain any information pertaining to werewolves whatsoever. Additionally, none of the rumours that you've heard are true. There are no captive werewolves, no experimentations, no breeding programs of any sort.”

There's a moment of silence before the man orders simply, “MoonMoon.”

The white wolf walks forward, a low threatening growl warning Anthea not to move as she gets close enough to intently sniff the exposed wrist of one hand. After a minute of focused sniffing, MoonMoon lets out a soft sound of assent, as if confirming that Anthea is what she says she is.

“So you're telling me that the Prometheus drive has nothing about werewolves on it.”

“Correct.”

“And that neither you, nor your employer, nor anyone that you are aware of are plotting against the werewolves?”

“That is also correct.”

“And you don't even have the Prometheus drive?”

“Correct again.”

John lets out a sigh of relief as the blade slips away from his throat, and he lifts his bound hands up to stroke the unmarred flesh gingerly

“Very well, we will let you and your friend go then.” Turning back to John, the knife is used to cut the bonds around his ankles and his wrists, each sprawling free for a moment before John cautiously begins to gather himself together, one hand braced against his sore ribs while the other uses the wall to help himself up against the faint wave of dizziness that comes over him.

Anthea watches as John regains his feet before her gaze shifts back to Ink. “And our offer?”

“Rejected. Despite your word, we have no reason to trust Mycroft Holmes or the MOD. We will remain invisible and hidden as we have been forced to and trust in no one but ourselves.” In solidarity, MoonMoon turns around and circles until she's beside Ink, leaning against his legs.

Anthea frowns slightly, but she doesn't look surprised at the answer, merely disappointed. Nodding she holds her hand out and calls, “Let's go, John.”

John stumbles toward his current partner, stopping only when he comes along side MoonMoon. His hand drops lightly to her head. “Thank you, MoonMoon, for coming after me and saving my life. I owe you one.” The wolf's tongue lolls out of her mouth on one side as she gives John a grin and a soft yip. His fingers tangle in her fur briefly before he steps forward to follow Anthea out of the darkness.

Their feet crunch along gravel and then turning to enter a corridor, tap quietly against cold stone and cement. Turning his head sideways to study her stoic features, John asks, “So. Did what I think just happened actually happen?”

“What do you think happened?

“I think that you just used me as bait to try and make a pact with a bunch of werewolves.”

“Not precisely. We used the Prometheus drive as bait to try to make a pact with a bunch of werewolves. You just happened to get in the middle of the whole thing.”

“And maybe, just maybe that's because you _put_ me in the middle?” John can feel his ire rising. At this point, both physically and mentally wrung out, John is starting to take serious issue with the fact that it always seems that one Holmes or the other has a penchant for taking advantage of him.

“Just because you couldn't manage your two demons by yourself is no reason to start pointing fingers. And even if you are going to start pointing, point them at Mycroft and yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Indeed. You know Mycroft well enough now to realize that he wouldn't let the opportunity of a connection stop him from taking advantage of a problem in order to end up with a solution to a second problem.”

“Killing two birds with one stone, is that it?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, yes, I would agree except for the fact that you didn't get what you wanted.”

“Not yet, but there's still time. They've at least heard our offer, and two werewolves do not speak for the pack, even if he was the Alpha of the pack, which I find unlikely. No, the plan was still a success, it just wasn't a complete success.” Reaching for the door handle, Anthea turns it and steps out onto the street, the sudden sunshine causing John to wince and narrow his eyes. “Come, let's get you seen to, Dr. Watson,” she offers, stepping forward and hailing a nearby taxi.

She doesn't even realize that John has stopped and is no longer with her until Anthea is slipping into the back seat of the taxi alone. Leaning out she looks back at him, her head tilting to one side as she inquires, “What is it?” Her tone is mild and curious, but John is too focused on the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. The prickling sensation is back again, and while twice is a coincidence, three times is not. Looking around at where they're standing, John searches through the Guardian Angels and various spirits, looking for what is sending his hackles up on end, but finds nothing. Crouching to the street, he ignores the strange looks as people pass him by, placing his hand on the pavement and closing his eyes to concentrate and send his Sensitivity down through the cold cement, the feeling of dread and discomfort increasing as he does so.

Blue eyes snap open and lock onto Anthea's face. “Something is wrong. We have to go back.”

“Go back?”

“Yes, dammit!” Rising to his feet, John heads back toward the door that Anthea lead them out of before stopping and glancing back at her in frustration. “You need to lead the way back – it's too convoluted for me to remember.” 

Anthea steps out of the cab and waves the driver on before rejoining John. Her head tilts as she enters the dark hallway, closing the door behind them before taking point and leading John through dilapidated hallways and half-remembered rooms. “I don't think they will take kindly to us coming back after letting us go. If anything, they'll assume we're there to attack them.”

“I don't think so,” John murmurs, his skin positively dancing with electricity now. “I think they might already be under attack. Did you happen to bring that gun with you?”

Reaching into her pocket, Anthea passes it over to John as she continues to lead him down into the Underground. “I don't know how much ammunition it has left though. There was not an opportunity to reload it.”

Snapping open the cartridge, John peers in the gloom to try to see how many bullets are left. Four. Only four. Still, four is better than none, and if by the pricking of his thumbs something wicked this way comes, then they're facing demons again and he'll only need one bullet per demon to bring them down if his shot is good enough. No limbs, only head-shots and torso will do for this exchange.

The sounds of snarling, growling and the occasional yelps of pain come from down the tunnel, bringing John and Anthea into a full run. There are four demons and only two wolves, the pair of them black and white and red all over from the blood they've managed to draw and the blood that has been drawn. Reaching into her pocket, Anthea pulls out a small object that looks like a grenade, pulls the pin and lobs it ahead of them. The object rattles across the ground, unnoticed in the fight that rages on before them. Instead of a percussive explosion, the device yawns open to let forth a blinding light that has both friends and foes reeling back in shock. To the demons however, it must be like holy water, for their screams take on the distorted high pitches of pain.

Anthea's swords are gone but she pulls from each of her sleeves slender daggers that gleam in the bright light. She charges the first demon while John takes aim at the second, his eyes now adjusted to the brightness while his target is still blinded and reeling in agony. A head-shot brings both his screeching and his body to a halt, the hideous form crumpling into a pile. Aiming for the next demon, John's first shot goes wide and misses as the monster veers from its path just before it strikes. The bullet ricochets once and blessedly no more. John fires another shot but merely wings the demon that is now charging at him. Just as it's about to make impact John fires directly into its chest and both demon and human go down, John grunting under the weight of the impact.

There's no time to waste so John rolls over, getting the demon off him before realizing that the fight is already over. 

Their battlefield is littered with the remains of the four demons, Anthea standing tall and proud next to the two she managed to dispatch. Her eyes meet John's and she offers him a brilliant smile. “Nice work, Dr. Watson.” A painful whine, however, catches their attention. Their work here is not yet done. Rising to his feet, John crosses over to see MoonMoon lying on the ground, her fur bright red and Ink kneeling beside her, naked and cursing, trying to hold her flesh together before she bleeds out entirely.

John kneels down and pulls off his jacket, ordering, “Move over.”

The werewolf in human flesh snarls at him, so in his most commanding voice John explains, “Look, I'm a doctor, I can help her. If you don't let me help her, she's going to die.” 

The man stares at John hard for a few seconds before moving over. Checking over her injuries, John removes his jumper and presses it against the open wound, applying pressure and asking, “Do you have any medical supplies? I can help her, but I need to stitch these wounds closed and I'll need bandages. Do you have any?”

Ink nods silently before John shoves him over with one shoulder. “Then I need you to get them, and quickly.”

The werewolf blinks and turns to white wolf who gives him a soft but encouraging whine. In a flash he is transformed – no Hollywood torturous shifting and grinding of bones but a smooth and silent magical transformation that leaves in its wake a massive black beast. He offers John a threatening growl in warning before dashing off down the tunnel.

Turning his attention back to his patient, John presses the jumper against her side and at her pained whine whispers, “It's okay, MoonMoon, I've got you. I'm not going to let you die, that's not going to happen.”

Crossing over to where John kneels next to the wolf, Anthea peers down dubiously at both the amount of blood and the wolf before asking, “Are you lying to her? Because that's a great deal of blood.”

The werewolf isn't so badly off that she can't growl at Anthea for the brutal comment and John just gapes for a moment before asking, “I - are you shitting me right now? No, of _course_ I'm not lying to her. MoonMoon, my apologies for my companion. She has the sensitivity of a cantankerous badger.”

A soft snuffle, not unlike a huff of laughter, escapes the white wolf's muzzle.

Shaking his head, John assures both wolf and woman, “No, no, as long as I can get her stitched up and get her some antibiotics she'll be fine. I'll make sure of it.” There's nothing to do now but keep pressure on the wound and wait. Glancing up at Anthea, John asks, “What happened to Elizabeth? I saw that you got her out of there, but how?”

“Faerie. I opened a portal between our worlds and pulled her through. She was in too much shock to do anything foolish while she was there, though I did warn her not to touch anything, eat anything or talk to anyone. Not that it was likely anyone would have found her. I made sure to cross over in a private place.”

“Faerie. You took her to Faerie. Don't you think that's going to, I dunno, completely destroy her entire worldview? I thought you wanted to keep magical activity and awareness on the down low?”

“Don't worry Dr. Watson, the MOD has methods for dealing with such matters.” Folding her arms over her chest, Anthea seems to have no interest in getting her hands dirty caring for the werewolf. Indeed, despite being in two battles today she barely has a hair out of place.

“Methods. Do I even want to know? You're talking mind control, aren't you?”

“Don't be ridiculous. We can't mind control anyone. Now, erasing select memories, that's a bit easier.”

“Erasing memories?”

“Well, not just any memories. Traumatic ones are both the easiest and the most difficult. They're easier to find but not always easy to forget. Fortunately some minds have great powers of disbelief and are willing to obfuscate and bury any memories that disturb the status quo as quickly as possible. We simply ease the way for that process and supply better locks. She'll remember being captured but the trauma of the experience will leave some gaps in her memories. Nothing she'll have any desire to remember. She's currently at a local hospital where some of the MOD staff are keeping an eye on her - doctors and psychiatrists and the like.”

Her brow arches at the look of dismay that John is giving her. “Don't worry, we take care of our own.”

“She's not your own.”

“No, but she was involved in supernatural events due to her fiancée’s employment with us. We take our duties and our promises seriously, Dr. Watson. We will take care of Elizabeth Neill.”

Their conversation end and they wait in silence until they hear the sound of many drumming feet, approaching quickly. Anthea draws her blades but slides them back into place when Ink arrives with several other werewolves, all in wolf form for greater speed. Transforming once again, Ink unburdens the small pack of the goods they have brought with them, passing them onto John while the wolves look on anxiously. While the location leaves something to be desired, there is now a plethora of equipment and medical supplies that more than suits John's needs. A clean sheet to work on, water and soap to clean up with, disinfectant, sterilized equipment, even an electric clipper. Although he's never worked on an animal before, the procedures are all similar. Still, he doesn't look forward to shaving her before stitching her up, but it would be worse to get fur trapped inside the injury.

Glancing over at Ink, the only werewolf who has shifted back, John asks, “Can she shift into human form or will that be too difficult for her?”

Shaking his head, Ink confesses, “MoonMoon is not adept at shifting. She tends to remain in wolf form rather than her human form. In her current state I think shifting would be impossible for her.”

“Right. Okay, well, wash up. I'm going to need a nurse and that's you.” Once Ink is ready, John sets to work. It is time consuming and painstaking, but after an hour he feels confident that he has treated all of her injuries as well as he is able. Injuries have been stitched closed, slathered with antibiotic gel, and bandaged up thoroughly. The wolves have even brought a makeshift stretcher for them to carry her with and once the surgery is over, John and Ink lift her up and place her gently upon it, a wolf at each corner to carry to wherever it is they're going.

“She's going to need antibiotics. I can write you a prescription. Just come to 221B Baker Street and it will be waiting for you there with our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.”

Ink stands there, bloody and naked but unashamed of his appearance, nodding to John before clearing his throat and reaching out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.” He glances over toward Anthea as well before offering, “And to you as well. Without your help, we wouldn't have been able to defeat all four of the demons. You saved our lives at the risk of your own.” Straightening up fractionally, he studies them both before adding, “I will bring your offer before the council. Your actions today speak volumes more than your words. Perhaps... perhaps we can reach an agreement with further proof of your good faith and honesty.”

Anthea offers Ink a sober nod and a small smile. “I hope very much that we can win your faith then. Mycroft Holmes firmly believes we can be better and stronger together than apart. I have pledged my life to his work and can say that he only wishes the best for you and your kind and to make whatever amends he can for the years of persecution that you all have suffered.”

John leans against the wall, wiping his hands off on a clean cloth, wearily watching the interaction between werewolf and fae. Once the wolves have departed he straightens up and asks, “What were you saying earlier about getting me 'seen to'?”

For the first time that he can recall, Anthea offers him a genuine smile and gestures with one hand. “Indeed. You've done enough patching up for one day, Dr. Watson. Let's get you patched up in turn, shall we?”

*****

He is so small - so helpless and soft. Yet there is steel in the man. Iron and will twisted together into ardent determination. Melmoth enjoys playing with John Watson, watching him, studying him, waiting for him to prove himself to be more than mere flesh and blood. He wants to see John show his true colours, to wave his banner high, and reveal his true nature. But so far the only banner he waves is his talent as a Sensitive, his skin twitching the closer that Melmoth draws to him and the closer he draws to the demon. It takes every mask and shield, every cloaking kind of magic he has to remain hidden from the human and even that is not enough to hide him completely from the mortal's sight. Impressive. Formidable. And yet such a small and useless skill when locked inside a fragile and simple human.

Ah, but he stands by the Adept's side and truly does not that make them both the more powerful – one with the Sight and one with the Talent? Indeed, the only thing holding Sherlock Holmes back from being a truly fearsome foe is his lack of Sight, his blindness toward the very magic he conjures and crafts, even the simplest of its myriad forms and shapes hidden from him. And the forces that embody the creatures and beings that surround him, utterly invisible to his regard, his every step threatened and endangered by that which he cannot see. But together. _Together_.

Yet they are separate. Each travels within his own sphere, connected and apart; two, not one. And until they are one, their powers will always be limited to the flesh that confines them. They will always be so much less than they could be. And so unprotected. He could kill each of them and claim their souls for his own with no one to contest him, no Angel to guard their souls, and wouldn't that be a great reward? For surely two such souls would be worthy of a king's ransom with such powers contained within them.

It delights him to watch and test the human. He observes his mettle against the demons that hold the woman hostage. When he falls, Melmoth surges forward in excitement, expecting him to rise in power or die brutally. But werewolves change the course of the day, interfering and taking down one of his many brethren. But it matters not. They are brethren but not brothers - kith, but not kin. The wolves drag the human away and he follows curiously to see if now he will reveal himself. But no. He is trussed like a helpless lamb, weak and feeble in the aftermath, unable to even free himself from the simple bonds. That is when the idea slithers into Melmoth's mind. Why not explore his limits further? What of his shown nature? How attuned is he to his Sensations? Zendithar is nothing but pleased to learn of the werewolves' hide-out, eager to get the so-called Prometheus drive. What is the loss of four demons when he has so many more? Four more follow Melmoth's hand to where they hide in the darkness, alone and unprotected to claim that which the wolves do not have. Will the human sense his presence and make the connection? Will he heed the call? Ahhh, yes, he does. Melmoth grins as the power reaches down through human constructs and cold asphalt to centre in on his power, on his disturbance of the very fabric of nature. Yes, small mortal, come to me, feel me, find me. 

This battle he observes as well, pleased with the performance of the players but ultimately disappointed by the final act. There is no deus ex machina, no great reveal on the part of the human. With a lingering desire for more, he slips away, disinterested in acts of kindness and healing. They do not suit his needs. There is a scent that belongs to him now, the blood of the human, and he reaches out into the world to see if he can find more. And there it is, old and dried now, but definitely that of the human. Cradling the small bowl in his talons, Melmoth's many mouths grin and he licks the surface of it clean. Delicious. Pure. Such innocent blood, like that of a babe. How can a man of forty years and five taste like a newborn child? What a delicious mystery. What a scrumptious treat. 

Melmoth holds the blood within him, knowing that it will be valuable to him in this quest. But he need not mention it to Sherlock. Oh no, that would not do at all. Sherlock must not know of the blood of Watson. That would be telling and Melmoth need not tell him anything he does not wish to. So ironic really, to play the captive and obey the rules. It is both maddening and insanely pleasurable. The bindings that hold him back - his word, his name - held against him. Like a bound submissive, the very ropes that hold him in place also deliver him to a place of ecstasy knowing what he knows.

Time flows and swirls, meaningless until the specific hour is struck. And with the chiming of the clocks of London, Melmoth feels the pull and allows the current to drag him along, playfully snatching at random eddies and pools, but nothing stops the relentless pull that brings him back to the place where he is meant to be. As his form coalesces so do his thoughts clarify from the swirling miasma he was to the configuration that he becomes. Ahh, words, language, time - all of these things take on a solid shape that he fits himself into once more, awareness settling, modulating, turning toward the pitch and cadence of human thought.

He fills the circle, sadly no sacrifice awaits him this time. The initial summons requires such a gift for the pact to follow, but return reports over the same task are not equally gifted. No matter. Despite the tediousness of the task at hand, the end shall be its own reward. Hovering within the circle, the various mouths of his appearance curve into malicious smiles as he studies the fragile human with its oblivious back to him.

He considers the collection of equipment and potions, vials and books, papers and charms. It seems that the human is working to verify for himself the truth of the matter, testing various bits of the one called John Watson to determine what the truth of him might be. Does the human doubt then the charge he placed upon him? Does he think or suspect that Melmoth could do other than he has been commanded? Twining within his confines, he watches the man work and concludes that he does not. It is but a stopgap against the wheels of time. A way to hold at bay the hours and minutes of waiting. The human does not doubt, merely is impatient for the truth.

Pressing against the boundary, Melmoth sighs, eyeing the delicate length of Sherlock's neck, the tender fold of his stomach. Pity the circle is well made and his orders otherwise. It would be delicious to break the seal and cross over the cold cement floor, feel the terror and horror as his very essence filled the Adept, rending him into a blood pulp and feasting upon his flesh. It would be his due as a summoned demon to take his life at will. The very idea makes him quiver in desire and something of his thoughts must be vocalized, for the human spins upon his seat, eyes wide with panic and surprise for just a second before he glances at his device and infers the time, the brief moment of terror abating. He believes all is as it should be.

Seething with feigned impatience, Melmoth intones gravely, “I have returned for the requested report.”

The human's eyes narrow in avarice and excitement. “And?”

Glancing over at the various instruments of Sherlock's magical and scientific study, the demon rumbles, “You are wasting your time. John Watson is nothing of import. He is utterly human and ordinary.”

One dark eyebrow arches upward. “Nothing? Really? You disappoint me, _Melmoth_ ,” the name intoned gravely, as if by just saying it he could do the demon harm. Melmoth makes sure to tremble, or shift as much as his current configuration allows. Overconfidence is the Adept's Achilles heel. And like Achilles, it will bring him low.

“Nay, it is so. I have studied him as closely as his powers will allow and yet leave me unseen by him. In that much are you aright. His powers as a Sensitive are impressive indeed. But that is all that he can offer.” At Sherlock's scathing glare, the demon roils in his space before offering, “I can, of course, consult the written word and past memory. There might be something that I cannot see but which has been spoken of before. And if he is somehow invisible to mine own eye, I shall find a way of revealing him.” There is a moment before he slyly rumbles, “If you were but to remove the sigils and protections of your place such that I could enter it in the night...”

“Then I would be a greater fool than you take me for. No, the flat and the house remain protected, as they always will be.”

Damn. “The human mind is fragile and exposed in the dark. All those dreams, those thoughts...”

“Shall be unread by you or any of your kind,” Sherlock snaps sharply. 

Interesting. So there are limits of how far he will go. How much he will give of his mate. Why not press on this tender spot? “You are fond of this one.” 

The statement clearly catches the human off guard, silver grey eyes blinking rapidly before a look of disinterest claims his features. “He is my flatmate. And he is easy to like. Gives me little in the way of trouble and more than earns his keep.”

Will he rise to his defence, or does he view John Watson like one of his possessions? “Yes, like a loyal dog he is, eager for whatever scraps of affection you are willing to dole unto him.”

Bristling, Sherlock counters, “Hardly. He's more than willing to put me in my place if I push him too far, and John Watson settles for no man's scraps.”

Melmoth resists the urge to grin. “And yet you withhold yourself from him.”

Frowning, Sherlock retorts, “If you mean the truth of the investigation, of course I do.”

“No, foolish human, I mean the truth of your regard. I have seen how you look at him when he does not look at you. Your dinner last night was charming, though you could have been more attentive. I especially enjoyed the serenade that you offered him. An apology, no, for having trespassed upon his patience and personal possessions?” His voice is almost cloyingly sweet now.

Icy eyes stare back at Melmoth. “You are looking for the wrong clues. I charged you with determining the true nature of John Watson, not to come up with fanciful notions about my person. While I admire him and enjoy his company, I'm married to my work and not interested in any sort of relationship. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, and I have no intention of succumbing to such a weakness.”

“The lady doth protest too much?” 

“Enough! Do you have anything of use to report, or are you done?”

Oh it _is_ fun to play with this one. So little control over his emotions when they are exposed, though he likely thinks the cold facade convincing. It's fascinating that he is able to abuse his flatmate so and yet feel so strongly about him at the same time. Perhaps one is the catalyst for the other? Sinking back into himself, chuckling, Melmoth replies drolly, “My apologies, master. I have nothing further to report at this time.”

“Fine. Then be off with you. Look into your tomes and reassess the situation. In the meanwhile, despite your protestations, I shall continue my studies and work here on the off chance that your skills in such investigative matters proves to be less than adequate.”

“Your words are my commands,” Melmoth intones unctuously and with a whirling of his guise he 'vanishes' from sight, but not from the room. Hovering there silently, Melmoth observes the human as he deflates slightly in the demon's supposed absence, frowning with quiet consternation at the observations before dismissing them with a soft, “Nonsense.” Sherlock returns to his work, studying the results of his latest test on a slide beneath a microscope, his lips an unhappy line of disappointment from yet another failed result.

Melmoth curls himself around the human, surrounding him and laughs silently to himself at how utterly oblivious Sherlock is to his presence. Blind. Helpless. Grinning to himself, Melmoth cannot help but silently think to himself, “Soon, my powerful little Adept. Soon you will be _mine_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of Latin in this chapter, the translation is at the end, but it might be dreadfully wrong as I couldn't find anyone to help me get a proper translation. Feel free to correct my Latin if you are more knowledgeable about such things. ;-)

God, it's been a long day. Each step up the seventeen stairs that lead to their flat drags at John's feet. Despite getting patched up and treated for his various injuries he's still sore and dirty and all he wants is a nice cuppa, a good meal, and a long, hot shower.

Pushing open the door to the living room, John stops at the sight of Sherlock sprawled over his chair in a t-shirt, jogging bottoms, and his blue robe, looking for all the world like he was dead. Hmmm. What became of his huge research project?

Pulling off his jacket, John hangs it up and notes mildly, “Didn't expect to see you here tonight...”

A low, irritable grunt is the only response that John receives.

“Bad day, I gather?” he asks, turning about before freezing. The rest of Sherlock's body hasn't moved, but Sherlock's left arm is now raised and pointed at the wall, a gun held within his grasp, safety off, finger on the trigger. Before John can even form the word, 'Don't' the gun goes off. One, two, three, four shots. God, he isn't even bothering to look at where he's shooting! Torn between stopping Sherlock and realising that his insane flatmate might not have the good sense to stop shooting even if he _did_ approach him, John takes a few abortive steps and then waits for Sherlock's hand to drop before rushing forward. 

“Jesus!” he exclaims, yanking the weapon free from Sherlock's now limp hand and setting the safety on before quickly disarming it, pushing the remaining bullets into his pocket and setting the gun down on the table. “Christ, Sherlock, what's gotten into you? Where did you get this?”

“Bored!” And then, after a heartbeat. “Client.” 

John doesn't even want to think what sort of a client was able to supply Sherlock with an illegal firearm. It must have happened recently because he certainly doesn't remember seeing any client give Sherlock with a firearm when he was his guardian angel. He only hopes that anyone who overheard the shots assumes it was the telly. At least Mrs. Hudson must be out. Cor, she'll be furious when she sees the holes in the wall. “And just how can you be bored? I thought you had this amazing research project to work on. You _love_ research. You love research and experiments almost as much as you love the Work.”

Sherlock's eyes have yet to even open as he flops restlessly in his seat, long arms and legs flung out haphazardly in positions that couldn't possibly be comfortable. “Waiting for results. All of the tests came out negative. Nothing to do in the meanwhile so, bored.” One eyelid cracks open and narrows upon John, then another as he sits up and leans forward, causing John to take an uneasy step back as all that pent up energy and ennui suddenly has a new puzzle to focus on, namely, John.

“No, no,” he forestalls as John opens his mouth to explain, “don't tell me, I want to see how close I get.”

Rising up from his seat, Sherlock's quicksilver eyes take in everything with an intensity that causes John to shiver in reaction before he dismisses the response as residual exhaustion. “Fine, deduce all you want, I'm going to make a cup of tea.” He heads toward the kitchen, opens the door to the fridge, stands there for two seconds, and then abruptly slams the fridge door closed, jars and bottles within rattling in protest at the severity. He leans his brow against the door for a moment before pointing out the obvious.

“A _head_.”

With his hands steepled in front of his lips, Sherlock's gaze hasn't strayed, but he shakes head minutely as he replies, “Just tea for me.”

“No, Sherlock. There is a _head_ \- a _severed_ head in the fridge!”

“Well of course it's severed. Would be rather difficult to put a head with much else still attached to it in that fridge. Not when you insist that body parts can only be put in the crisper and the bottom shelf.”

Rubbing his face, John wonders briefly if this is what going mad is like, muttering to himself again, “A head...”

“Well it was terribly rude of you, slamming the door like that. You really should open it and, at the very least, say hello and introduce yourself.”

John swallows and looks up over his hand at Sherlock, a small smile is on the consulting detective's lips, either in response to John's disbelief or an indication that he has cracked the mystery of what John Watson spent the day doing. “You have a live and sentient severed head... in our refrigerator.”

“Well, he didn't really want to be in the fridge, but you made me promise to store all body parts in there after that unfortunate incident with the tea pot. So yes, Mimir's in the fridge, as per your request.”

John makes this strange sort of whine, as words don't really cover this sort of thing. “It has a name...”

“Oh for -” reaching past John, Sherlock opens the fridge and greets the head. “Evening Mimir. Sorry again about the accommodations. Allow me to introduce you to my friend, John Watson. Mimir, John. John, this is Mimir,” and then adds, “who was decapitated during the Aesir-Vanir war, and whose head was found and then carried by Odin as an advisor of sorts. He is renowned for his great wisdom and knowledge, above all other heads.”

“Not at the moment,” jokes Mimir, who is currently closer to Sherlock's knees than above his curly mop of dark hair. “Mind giving me a lift up?”

“But of course.” Sherlock lifts the cushioned platter Mimir's head rests on to John's height. “Well, come now John, don't be rude.”

Swallowing awkwardly, John's gaze flickers back and forth from Mimir to Sherlock before he meets the heads blue regard and inclines his head in greeting. No need to offer his hand this time. “Pleased to meet you. Sorry about before, it's, ahhh, been a rather hard day I'm afraid. My apologies.” 

“No need for apologies, Dr. Watson. Sherlock mentioned you were working a case for Mycroft.”

“You know Mycroft?”

“Really, John,” Sherlock interrupts. “Everyone in the supernatural community knows Mycroft.”

“Ahhh, yes, of course.”

“In fact, Mimir is currently consulting for the MOD. I just borrowed him for the day.”

“If, by the term borrowed, you mean took without permission.”

“Wait, Sherlock stole you from Mycroft?”

“Well, not precisely. I am autonomous in my decision-making processes at least. I accepted Sherlock's invitation to come and consult with him. However, Sherlock failed to mention this fact to Mycroft, so I'm sure by the elder Holmes' standards I've been stolen.”

“After all the ideas and things he's stolen from me, it's only fair,” scoffs Sherlock. In a true nonsequitor he suddenly points out with pride, “John had a run in with some wolves.” Ah, so he's done deducing then.

Mimir's eyes flicker over John's dirty and torn clothes before noting, “Not just wolves, werewolves.”

John recognizes the covetous gleam in Sherlock's gaze as it sharpens on his clothes. How either of them could tell it was wolves, let alone werewolves, is beyond John's ken. 

Turning to Sherlock and taking in the excited regard, John asks, “You sure you don't want to jump in on this case? Because quite honestly we seem to be getting nowhere with it, other than in trouble with everyone else that is looking the Prometheus drive. Today was quite a bit of trouble, actually. Just your sort of thing.”

Something shifts within Sherlock's gaze, as his gaze touches on John's head, his chest, his knees, frowning as if he was suddenly taking the facts before him and deducing the consequences involved in such circumstances. “Are you alright?” 

He seems genuinely concerned and John feels a soft swell of happiness surge within his chest at the question. “Oh yes. A crack on the head, some bruised ribs and abrasions, but nothing more serious than that....”

John's voice trails off as he watches Sherlock's hands lift, fingers slipping through the gold and silver strands of his hair to search for the knot at the back of his head, trailing over it gently as the detective assures himself that it is nothing more than a bump, replying softly, “Enough to knock you out though. You were clearly dragged clear of whatever did this to you by the werewolf. Did you go to the surgery to get it checked out?”

It's unlike Sherlock to be so concerned, so solicitous, that John simply stands there for a moment with his mouth open, gaping, before finally finding his words. “I'm a doctor, don't you think I can tell whether an injury is serious enough to require medical aid?”

“Mmmmm, but doctors also make the worst patients,” Sherlock points out, his hands dropping away as the concern fades from his features now that he's assured himself that John is alright. “But as you say, you're clearly lucid, no signs of dizziness, pupils are the same size with no unnatural dilation. And I'm sure that Anthea would have seen to your injuries since it is her job to take care of you and keep you in one piece. Other than your exhaustion, which I think we can reasonably chalk up to a very busy day, you seem... fine.”

“I am fine.”

The two men stare at each other intently, Sherlock assessing God knows what and John wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into with this man. The moment is broken by Mimir clearing his throat before delicately asking, “If you two wish to catch up, do you mind giving me an interesting arcane text to read? I'm afraid that the labels on the various condiments in your refrigerator make for less than scintillating reading material.”

“By all means,” Sherlock offers, giving John a quick wink before turning and striding across the room. Fingertips dance over the spines of books, dismissing each one in turn as being too mundane, too obvious, or too common before finding one to hover over like an uncertain bee, wondering if this flower will contain the much desired pollen or not. Plucking the tome free, Sherlock crosses back over to proffer it to Mimir, inquiring, “Will this suffice?” A quick glance and the exaggerated blink of the head indicates that, yes, it will be adequate for his needs.

It takes only a few moments for Sherlock to get Mimir settled, a simple spell placed upon the book such that all he need do is say 'next' and the pages will turn themselves for his convenience. Once certain that his guest is comfortable, he joins John in the kitchen to find two cups of tea brewing for the pair of them as John flips through the available takeout menus. “Have you eaten yet? What do you fancy? Chinese? Indian?”

“You ended up facing two demons on your own, most likely four in total were there. One of the demons managed to catch you on the back of the head just as you were eliminating the first with blessed bullets. But before he could do anything to you, you were rescued by a werewolf and a human, who was most likely a werewolf in human form. You were taken to one of the underground tunnels and held there until Anthea showed up and freed you.”

John doesn't even blink but replies instead, “Indian it is then. I could murder a curry. You?”

“Fine, fine, order me whatever you like.” Tilting his head Sherlock asks, “Is that really all you have to say?”

Rolling his eyes at the sulking man, John replies, “Look, Sherlock, I'm completely knackered.” But he can't resist the disappointed look on Sherlock's face. Knowing what the genius wants to hear he indulges him and adds, “Alright fine, brilliant. As always.” And it truly is. If John were less tired he would be far more impressed with Sherlock's deductive abilities. “Now tell me how you know all that.”

Sherlock releases a soft sigh of disappointment and waves his hand. “Oh John, you've observed my techniques and yet still cannot figure it out for yourself? Ah, very well. The first is simple – your clothes reek of brimstone. That means contact with demons, and quite a few. The scents are layered, some fresher than others. That means two interactions – one earlier in the day, the other later, the brimstone faintly tainted with the dusty scent of the Underground. There were clearly at least four demons because it would have taken at least two to keep Anthea sufficiently occupied such that she could not keep an eye on you. One you managed to dispatch yourself, shot with holy bullets I assume by the cordite on your fingertips. The lump on the back of your head speaks for itself – a demon lying in wait behind you while you were too busy to notice as you were in the process of dispatching the first. The very fact that you are here speaks to the fact that you were rescued. By the teeth marks in the collar of your jacket, you were dragged away by the werewolves who were following you both, waiting for you to either find or reveal that you had the Prometheus drive. They realized that things were going tits up and decided it was safer to get you out of there and potentially expose themselves than it was to risk you giving up the drive to the demons instead.”

John compliments his flatmate again, but this time with more enthusiasm. “Fantastic!”

Sherlock brushes off the compliment, but the ever so faint touch of pink upon his cheekbones speaks to his pleasure. “Of course, once they were convinced that they were wrong, they let you go. But they were then in turn attacked by demons for the same reason they kidnapped you – they were thought to have the drive. But you went back and fought by their sides along with Anthea and managed to defeat the demons. You used the gun again, but it most likely didn't have enough bullets to dispatch all of the demons, or you missed one of them. But you were able to fend off at least one of the demons, with a holy flash flare, the singe marks on your cuffs and sleeves radiating out in the blast radius, but your hand is unburnt, therefore signaling that the weapon used was not dangerous to you, only to demons.”

“Now hang on, how did you know that I was kept in the underground or that they were attacked by demons and we went back to help them?”

“John, really, must you ask such obvious questions? First off, you have dirt all over your clothes from being dragged through the underground and your jacket is rather worse for wear for having been dragged over gravel. As for how I know you went back to them, you clearly were running through the tunnels. Once you were released, there would be no need for you to run and likely you would have been a bit woozy from being recently clonked on the head such that running would be undesirable. As such, the only thing that would cause you to run would be to help someone else, namely the werewolves. The fact that you were running is clearly discernible from the dirt on your shoes. This also explains the second, fresher layer of brimstone as well as the scorch marks here and here,” he notes, gesturing lazily with one hand.

“You're amazing.”

“Of course I am, you're only just getting that now?”

John smiles broadly and takes a sip from his cup of tea. “Oh shut up, you insufferable git.”

*****

Seated comfortably upon the couch, his stomach full and his body weary, John feels himself drifting off to sleep before Sherlock's hand circles about his wrist pulling him upright.

“What, no, I don't want to wrestle, what are you up to now?”

Sherlock's long, elegant fingers remain looped around John's wrist, his brow creasing as he notes, “As tempting as it is to join you on this case, I still refuse to get involved since Mycroft is the client. However, I'm concerned that perhaps Anthea is not doing as good a job as she should in taking care of you and I want to make sure that you'll be... safe.”

“Safe? Since when have you concerned yourself with my wellbeing?”

“John, you wound me. I'm always concerned about your wellbeing, I just can't be bothered to do anything about it most of the time.”

“Ah, ta muchly for that. Right, so what are you proposing then?”

“A way for you to get in touch with me should you need my expertise.”

“If I need your expertise, I can always just text you.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock notes, “This is for more urgent matters, when you need me _there_.” 

John blinks before making a small 'o' with his mouth and gets up as Sherlock tugs on his arm again.

“Alright, just stand here,” Sherlock instructs, his hand reaching toward John's forehead. 

Before he even realises he's moving, John finds himself gripping Sherlock's wrist, Sherlock's fingertips a scant inch away from his brow. “Hold up, you can't just willy-nilly do whatever sort of magic you want on me. You do recall the last time you did magic on me, don't you?”

Sherlock huffs at the pointless question. “Yes, of course I do. It was most effective. The Spell of Mnemozine brought back your memory of the glyphs perfectly and you recreated them and allowed us to solve the case in doing so.”

“Right, and do you remember the _other _part of that experience? The one where you quite literally almost blew my mind into little pieces? Jesus, Sherlock, you can’t just do magic to me without asking or explaining what it is you're going to do.” Hands on his hips, John firmly proclaims, “From now on full disclosure and no loopholes, understand?”__

__Sherlock hesitates for a moment before nodding and dropping his hand, explaining, “I was going to mark you with the sigil of St. Anthony.”_ _

__“Excuse me? Saint Anthony? As in the patron saint of lost things? Sherlock, I'm standing right here.”_ _

__Rolling his eyes, as if John were taxing the patience of a saint, Sherlock retorts, “Yes of course...”_ _

__“In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not 'lost'.”_ _

__“Well it isn't for right _now _. Look, John, this is for _your_ benefit, not mine.”___ _

____Crossing his arms over his chest, John shakes his head, countering, “Nu-uh. No way. Full disclosure first, then I get to decide if I want this done.”_ _ _ _

____“You are the most stubborn, unreasonab - _fine_. This perfectly harmless spell allows you to summon me should you need me.”_ _ _ _

____“And precisely how does marking me as a lost thing help me summon you?”_ _ _ _

____Sherlock's hands dance dramatically through the air. “Well, it's a bit more convoluted than that, but basically by touching the sigil of Saint Anthony you will make yourself findable. And since I am the one putting the spell on you, you will, specifically, make yourself findable by me and only me. Once you touch it, it will be like a beacon. A text. It will not only tell me that you want me there, but it will tell me exactly where to find you, no matter where you might be or even if your position changes from the time you signal me to the time I reach you.”_ _ _ _

____“Ahhhh, I see. Any side effects I should be aware of? How does this interact with me?”_ _ _ _

____“It doesn't interact with you at all, save to be attached to your person. It does not affect your brain or thinking processes. You won't even know that it's there.”_ _ _ _

____Bowing his head, John takes a moment to think the matter over. Something on him that makes him a beacon. Something physically a part of his body. And although Sherlock says that it will only be a beacon for him, what if Sherlock is wrong? After all, Saint Anthony is called the patron saint of lost things, but in truth he is considered more the patron saint of lost souls and those who have fallen to mortal sin and abandoned the Church. Well, right now John has a soul and it's certainly a lost one since it belonged to Captain John Watson who he is only under the most circumstantial of means. If anyone in Heaven is either looking for John or for Watson, wouldn't this be just as bright a beacon to them? Shouting out loud, 'Look no further, for here is the Fallen angel who has stolen a soul!' No. As much as it is a comfort to John knowing that he could reach Sherlock should anything untoward happen or should he need his expertise in person, he can't take the risk. Not until he knows more. Not until he has some answers._ _ _ _

____Shaking his head, John mutters, “No, there has to be another option.”_ _ _ _

____Thoroughly put upon, Sherlock exclaims, “No? Why ever not?”_ _ _ _

____John ponders the most honest answer he can give without saying anything too meaningful. “Let's just say that I've let my faith lapse and I'm not too keen on invoking a Catholic saint in a magical act.”_ _ _ _

____“That's very small minded of you John...”_ _ _ _

____“So sue me. Is there another option? Surely Saint Anthony can't be the only magical means to finding something?”_ _ _ _

____Pursing his lips, Sherlock ponders the matter for a moment before crossing the room and pulling a carved wooden box down from one of the shelves. Flipping up the lid, he crosses over to the kitchen counter and upends it, a cascade of coins spilling out over the surface. Joining him, John looks down at the wide array of coins, currency from around the world apparently, and watches as Sherlock's long, graceful fingers sort through the mass of metal bits, sorting them this way and that until he finds what he's looking for._ _ _ _

____The coin is very old looking, irregular in its shape and so worn it's barely recognizable as a coin, a face engraved on one side, nearly rubbed off by time and fingers into non-existence. “I know that Mnemosyne was problematic for you, but how about Nataero, Roman God of Lost Things?” At the dubious look that John gives him, Sherlock continues, “Well, technically Nataero was known for being a trickster and deliberately hiding things of value from their owners, but...”_ _ _ _

____“Do you really think you can trust a trickster, Sherlock?” After a second, however, John realizes that he's being a bit hypocritical._ _ _ _

____The consulting detective shrugs, but a small smug smile curls his lips as he notes, “We have something of an understanding and mutual respect for one another. But to assure you, Nataero is also know for reuniting lost things with their owners when politely asked... or better yet, bribed.”_ _ _ _

____Rolling his eyes, John murmurs, “I'm not sure which is the less alarming, the idea that I am your possession or the idea of you trying to bribe a trickster god. Don't think I don't remember your deal with the Pooka.”_ _ _ _

____“Stop being so dramatic. You had fun, admit it.”_ _ _ _

____“Fun? I got an ASBO!”_ _ _ _

____“And had the best ride of your life, admit it.”_ _ _ _

____John opened his mouth to deny it but then shut it once more. For all the chaos of the moment and the embarrassment of the aftermath, it was rather... fun. Unwilling to concede the point, John chooses to simply glare at Sherlock instead._ _ _ _

____“So what now?”_ _ _ _

____“I'll put a spell on the coin and you carry the coin. When you need to summon me, all you have to do is hold the coin and think of me with the intention to have me at your side. Simple. And honestly, you probably don't even have to touch it directly so long as you keep it close to your person. Put it in your trouser pocket and that should be more than sufficiently close to the skin to work.”_ _ _ _

____With an overly dramatic huff, John sighs, “Fine. Let's do this so I can get some rest.”_ _ _ _

____The spell doesn't take much time or effort. Holding the coin in his palm, Sherlock has John place his palm over it, sandwiching the coin between their hands._ _ _ _

____“Nataero, mihi et invenies quod perierat.”_ _ _ _

____John is expecting something intense and dramatic but all that he feels is a little zap, like the coin just gave him a static shock. He lifts his hand to stare at the palm, but there's nothing there._ _ _ _

____“See? Nothing terrible happened and it's done.” Tossing the coin up into the air, Sherlock turns away, forcing John to reach out to snatch it before it drops to the ground. Shaking his head at the sheer arrogance of the man he calls his friend and his flatmate, John pushes the coin deep into the pocket of his jeans. All he hopes now is that he never has to use the ancient piece of metal._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nataero, mihi et invenies quod perierat. = Nataero, find that which belongs to me and is lost.
> 
> *****
> 
> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	10. Chapter 10

It's difficult to be patient as John putters about the flat, cleaning up boxes of take-out and washing dishes, then finishing his cup of tea before finally stretching with a mighty yawn and bidding Sherlock and Mimir good night before making his way upstairs. And then Sherlock has to wait even longer, until the sounds of floorboards above stop creaking and enough time has passed that it is safe to assume that John is fast asleep. Even then he waits, fingers restlessly beating out a rhythm of impatience. But once the allotted amount of time has passed, Sherlock folds up the paper he's been 'reading' for the past hour and tosses it aside, crossing over to where Mimir 'sits', reading his book. Hunkering down on a nearby ottoman, Sherlock folds his hands together and leans forward expectantly. “So?”

He doesn't take it personally when Mimir doesn't turn his head to address him back. After all, he doesn't have the wherewithal to facilitate such an action. “So what?”

“Don't prevaricate. You know why I brought you here and I know you've had more than enough time to study John. So you either know the answer to my question or you don't.”

Mimir sighs softly, his eyes rolling into his brow. “No.”

“No? No, you don't know the answer to my question or no you won't answer my question?”

“No, I don't know the answer to your question.”

Sitting up straighter, Sherlock reaches out and turns Mimir to face him, staring the infamous sage in the eyes. “What is John?”

“As far as I, or anyone else can see, John is human - utterly, wholly human. He is, as you have already pointed out, a very powerful Sensitive. In fact I would go so far as to say that he is possibly the most puissant human Sensitive on the planet. He can most certainly See more than Mycroft.”

Sherlock's brow lifts in surprise at that statement, his lips curling in delight before the amusement is banished in the wake of gaining an answer to his question. “Is it possible that your eyes are deceived?”

“Anything is possible, Sherlock. You of all people know that. I cannot say that John is not something other than what he appears but if he is then his powers of deception are greater than my powers of insight, and that is saying something.”

“What else?”

Mimir crooks one eyebrow. “What else?”

“What else do you See?”

Mimir's milky blue gaze narrows shrewdly. “I see a man obsessed to the point of going behind his flatmate's back to deceive him.”

Waving his hands in annoyance, Sherlock concurs, “Yes, but what is it that John is obsessed with that he would lie to me?”

“I do not speak of John, Sherlock, I'm speaking of _you_.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Mimir gives Sherlock a discerning look before interrogating him. “Why is this so important to you? Why can you not accept John as he is? As who he offers to you? Why must he be hiding something? Why must he be something more than he appears?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but Mimir doesn't give him the chance to answer. “No, you are not going to give me some blithe and pithy reply. I know the answer to these questions. Do you? Think, Sherlock. Think carefully. Are you so desperate for the ultimate mystery that you would subject your friend to such scrutiny, going behind his back and against his word to determine if he might be something more than he appears? And for what? Because you suspect something is amiss? Because a ghost referred to him as “zhēn rén”, a word with many possible meanings beyond the one you are assuming was meant? Is his friendship to you not enough? Is _he_ not enough for you?” 

As commanded, Sherlock does not speak but closes his mouth and holds it in a thin, hard line, anger simmering just below the surface. If he wanted a lecture, he would have asked Mycroft for his opinion. But this is the problem with wise men – you can ask them all the questions you want, but you don't always get the answers you're looking for.

Mimir watches as Sherlock struggles with his irritation, his voice softening as he asks, “And what if he isn't anything more than what he seems? What then? Will you grow bored of him? Kick him out? What if he _is_ something more than he seems? Does that truly change who John is? Does that change his affections for you, his devotion to you?”

Sherlock has bit his tongue for as long as possible, but he can do so no longer. “Pffft. Devotion? _Now_ you're seeing things Mimir.”

“Am I? To me John appears to be quite devoted to you. He's lived with you now for three months and in that time he has not only tolerated your eccentricities but has even encouraged and supported a number of them. He's been a faithful companion, a helpmate, and a true friend when you have fewer of those to your name than you can count on one hand. He's even killed a man in order to save your life after only a day of knowing you. Believe me when I tell you that John feels very strongly toward you. You are more than just a friend to him. Much more.”

Sherlock frowns, not liking at all where this is going, his mind reeling back to Melmoth's words from earlier that day. “Are you telling me that John is in love with me?”

“That isn't my place to tell you. All I am telling you is that you will never have a truer friend than John Watson. He cares for you deeply. I would hazard a guess that you are the centre of his universe. Some call that love. Some call that madness. I don't know what he calls it, but that you mean everything to him is quite obvious and if you haven't seen it before now, then you have no right to call yourself a detective.”

Sherlock stands there quietly, a perturbed expression on his face as he takes in everything that Mimir has said, though he doesn't find the revelation either comfortable or welcome. John? In love with him? Of course Sherlock is worthy of being the sun to John's earth, since he is so insistent that the latter revolves around the former. Sherlock's brilliance is worthy of an audience and John has certainly been one for him. But there is a distinct difference between John being his audience of one and John thinking that Sherlock is his one and only. He's deduced that John Watson was a man of sexual prowess and pursuit, with conquests on no fewer than three continents. Yet in the three months that he's lived with Sherlock he has not once so much as looked at either a woman or another man. His eyes are always fixated upon Sherlock.

This sudden awareness of possible emotions on John's part does not sit well within Sherlock's Mind Palace, the floors and walls creaking with the sudden shift in his perspective. No, no, everything was correct as it was before. Mimir is just exaggerating, that's all. Trying to get him to see some kind of reason in the most unreasonable of ways. But Sherlock isn't interested in being reasonable. Reasonable is boring. Reasonable is trite. No, no, he's much more interested in mysteries and the truth. Reason is not the destination, merely a part of the journey. “You've become overly sentimental, Mimir. It is the curse of the young and the elderly, I'm afraid. Of course you see love and romance blooming in the air.”

Mimir gazes up to the heavens. “I swear, you are more stubborn than Odin himself and I'll say to you exactly what I said to him. You asked me for my opinion and now you have it. What you do with it is entirely up to you, Sherlock.”

“Hmmmmmm. Yes. Well, thank you for your input. I do appreciate you taking the time and allowing me to have you over. I suppose it is helpful having some confirmation of the facts one way or the other, even if I do find them unsatisfying. But no matter. I have other irons in the fire as well regarding the humanity of John Watson.”

“Other irons?” If he could Mimir would most likely cock his head to one side. “Are you seeking out the opinions of other seers?”

There's a brief moment of hesitation before Sherlock offers, “In a manner of speaking...”

Mimir stares at Sherlock before hissing through his teeth. “Sherlock! Have you been consorting with demons?” Normally Sherlock considers himself a master of deception, but something in his expression must give him away. Either that or Mimir's talents are truly as formidable as purported. “You have! Are you mad? What will Mycroft say?”

“Mycroft will say _nothing_ because he isn't going to know about it and you are not to tell him! This conversation is private!”

As it is his rite and duty that each consultation remains confidential, with a soft sigh, Mimir acquiesces. “I must urge you to use caution, Sherlock. You are treading on dangerous ground. Demons are not to be dealt with lightly.”

Huffing in faint annoyance, Sherlock replies, “I have it all well in hand, you need not worry. The demon in question is safely within my control and has strict instructions to do no harm.”

Mimir's expression is dubious at best and with a disdainful sniff he announces, “Well, if that is all that you need me for, then I believe I am ready to go back to my 'room'.”

Nodding, Sherlock lifts him up and carries him over to the refrigerator. “I'll be sure to get you back to the proper abode first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I believe that would be best, yes. Hopefully, for your sake, Mycroft won't have noticed that I've gone astray in the meanwhile.”

 

*****

 

It's the middle of the night when he wakes up with a soft cry, his frantic breathing audible in the silence of the night as John jerks upright, trembling and covered in sweat.

Jesus. Not a chance in hell that he'll be able to get to sleep again after that. He's confounded by the fact that after this many times they still continue to affect him so deeply. There is, apparently, no 'getting used to' nightmares. John sits quietly for a moment, concentrating on catching his breath and listening to the household to see if he's woken anyone up. Tup must be spending then night elsewhere, or he just doesn't wish to poke his long nose into John's business for a change. 

Quietly he slips from his bed and makes his way downstairs, heading to the bathroom. Sherlock's not in the living room for a change and his bedroom door is closed. If he's not asleep then he likely realises John is up and doesn't wish to make him feel uncomfortable after his nightmare. Or maybe he's not even around. One never really knows with Sherlock. At any time of the day or the night he can be off on some misadventure or investigation.

Shaking his head, John makes his way to the bathroom and runs the shower, stepping beneath the hot spray with a grateful sigh. He lets the water sluice away the cold sweat that covers his frame; head tilted down as the water flattens his hair and covers his ears, surrounding him in a gentle liquid roar that becomes the world around him.

When he finally steps out and wraps his robe around himself, John makes his way to the kitchen and begins to prepare himself a cup of tea when an idea suddenly occurs to him.

Since he's become human John's done many strange and unusual things. By the standards of a Guardian Angel they are, perhaps, not genuinely that strange, but by human standards they are most peculiar. Of course, that's mostly because he's following Sherlock bloody Holmes around, Consulting Detective and probably one of the most powerful Adepts on the planet - a man whose brilliance is only exceeded by his impressive lack of self-preservation and common sense. But in truth, John is hard pressed to think of anything he's done that is quite as bizarre as this. But, as they say, one should not look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it might have something helpful to say.

He stands in front of the fridge awkwardly. Should he... knock? That would be polite. Really, he's not entirely sure why Sherlock has kept the head in the fridge all this while despite John's requirements. If it's been riding atop Odin's saddle for centuries without rotting away to nothing, what's a few hours in the fridge going to do? Clearing his throat, John's fingers flex and then form a fist before lightly rapping on the refrigerator door.

“Enter?” offers a voice within, and once John opens the door, Mimir comments, “though I honestly cannot recommend it as there is little enough room for me in here as it is, let alone anyone else. And the accommodations are certainly less than ideal what with the light going off whenever the door is closed and the lack of temperature control. Though I suppose that complaint is inaccurate. There is plenty of temperature control, I'm just simply not in control of it.”

“I'm sorry,” are the first words out of John's mouth. “What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

“Out of this cold box would be lovely for a start, thank you.”

“Of course.”

Lifting the platter, John carries Mimir over to kitchen table and sets him down before closing the door to the fridge. The pale blue eyes study John silently as he moves around the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, asking the head politely if it would like one too, to which Mimir demurs.

“Thanks for the offer, but I'm afraid I don't have the stomach for it,” quips the head.

Placing his palm over his face, John softly curses, “Crap. I'm sorry. That was incredibly insensitive of me, wasn't it?”

“That's alright, John. I sense that you have something rather pressing on your mind. Something that you wish to ask me?”

Switching the kettle on John nods, looking over toward Sherlock's door before studying Mimir uncertainly. His voice drops down, soft and low before replying “I do, but before I ask it I need to ask you for your word of honour that no matter what I ask you, or what you tell me, that you will not tell Sherlock or anyone else.”

One white brow lifts, intrigued by the request, but Mimir makes no judgement, only replies, “If that is your wish, I certainly owe Sherlock no allegiance nor have I promised to tell him anything in particular that you might wish to share with me. So if you would like some advice and wish to keep it confidential, I would be content to be your... confidant? Advisor? I suppose it depends on what you wish to ask and what you wish to know.” Sensing John's concern regarding being overheard, Mimir notes, “If it is of any consolation, Sherlock is fast asleep and a deep sleeper.”

John only hesitates for a moment longer before bobbing his head and takes a seat so as not to rudely loom over the head. “Alright. This is going to sound very strange, and I can't really explain why it is so, but... I have reason to believe that I have stolen another man's soul.”

Mimir offers John a slow cat-like blink in response to this announcement. “I... see.” Although his head is incapable of movement, John gets the distinct feeling that if he could, Mimir would be leaning in closer right about now to get a better look at John. His eyes have narrowed in concentration and, in an effort to be helpful, John sits up straighter and shifts closer to the seer. The waiting is long and awkward and finally, unable to hold himself back any longer he inquires, “What do you see?”

“There is definitely something peculiar about your soul. It is oddly shaped, smaller than usual for a man your age. I can only guess that some trauma has blunted and altered its form. But whether the soul is your own or one that you have taken, I cannot say.”

John cannot hide his disappointment, shoulders slumping forward as a breath escapes him. 

“I know that you said that you could not say anything more but what are you that you would think yourself the thief of a soul? You do not have two souls, which means that you are something that is born soulless, if you think yourself the unworthy host of one.”

Tilting his head to one side, John asks with a pained expression, “Can you not tell what I am?” And then, after a heartbeat, hopeful realisation strikes. Quickly he rises up from his chair and steps back, opening his arms to either side. “Can you tell me what I am?”

The words clearly surprise Mimir, who eloquently blinks once again before changing his study of John, taking in the whole man as he is, every inch of him. It is, however, with the same regret that he confesses, “To mine eye, you are human through and through. Your body and blood are human, your soul is human, your form and shape, your mind and meaning all human. If you are something other than human, your skill of cloaking your true nature is beyond the eyes and mind of myself.” 

The sage looks mystified and intrigued. “How is it that you cannot know what you are?”

“I know what I was,” confesses John, without revealing anything more, “but I have been transformed and in my transformation I have become something new that I have never seen before and, as you have just witnessed, something that not even you have seen before.” John forlornly sits back down in his chair and reaches for his cup, taking a sip. “Can you offer me no solace? No help or advice in how I might discover what I have become?”

Mimir bites his lower lip thoughtfully, his gaze lifting to the ceiling in thought before focusing on John's face once more. “There is one who may be able to help. She is the daughter of the Oracle of Delphi, but she resides here in London. You can find her if you go to Holborn Station. To the mortal eye she is a busker making her way through her music. But to those whom she chooses to aid, she will greet you in song and make your deepest questions and desires known to you. She does not help all who come for her counsel, but you are a good man, John Watson, and she is ever the guide to the true of heart.”

Hope lodging in his throat, John nods his head once and offers a sincere, “Thank you.”

 

*****

 

Lying on his bed, John folds his hands over his stomach and waits. Sleep will not come to him, but he can find a small degree of peace and rest if he stops thinking and just quietly absorbs the world around him. As morning dawns, he listens to the sounds of sparrows singing, traffic driving by, and people waking up and moving about. Pipes clank and rattle, water runs, voices sing off key during showers and muted conversations murmur, whispering through the walls like secrets. He hears Sherlock downstairs only by the occasional creak in the floorboards and the sound of the shower running. Then light footsteps down the stairs and the slam of the front door announce his early morning departure.

And still John waits. He both feels and sees the sun peeking through his window, the sun filtered air swirling with motes of dust that tell him that he hasn't vacuumed in awhile. There's the chiming of dishes and bustling downstairs, an airy little tune being hummed by Mrs. Hudson as she tidies up the foyer.

It's the soft sound of scurrying in his bedroom that finally makes John turn his head and ask quietly, “Tup?” It's either the Fae or they've got an infestation problem. John hopes it is the former. The scrambling changes direction and a soft grunt of effort announces his unofficial roommate's arrival before the friendly and familiar voice calls out, “Mornin', Wingless. How'd yeh sleep?” Once upon the bed, however, his small furry face peering at the bags under John's eyes and the shadows on his features, Tup tsks and answers his own question. “Bad night again, eh?”

Rubbing at his face, John murmurs, “Pretty bad,” before sitting up and turning to face his furry friend. “I do have, however, a chance at getting some answers.”

“Oh? Didja 'ear from Eshu then?”

Shaking his head, John replies, “No, nothing yet. Spoke to a seer by the name of Mimir last night. He couldn't tell me either what I am or if I stole John Watson's soul, but he did recommend that I talk to the daughter of the Delphi.” Stretching with a mighty yawn, John gently works out the kinks that have accumulated through the night, the bruises on his body making themselves known. “I know you just got in, but I'm going to go see her. Would you care to join me?” Reaching out, John scoops up his mobile and texts Anthea.

_Need to run an errand this morning. Do you need me for anything?_

Tup ambles over next to John and shakes his head. “I dinnae mind goin' out again. Tis nice to see the world on occasion rather than me small corner of it. Besides, never met an Oracle before. Sounds like a right adventure if yeh be wantin' the company.”

John's mobile pings and he reads the text there.

_Working on the problem internally for the moment. Will rejoin you this afternoon to follow up on any progress and determine next steps._

“Friendly company would be nice, yeah. Been having a bit of trouble keeping out of harms way lately, so having a second pair of eyes would be welcome. And it looks like we've got the morning off, so we've got time to visit the Oracle.”

Getting up, John espies the coin that Sherlock gave him the night before on his bedside table and scoops it up, slipping it into his pocket. Not that he would call for Sherlock if he somehow manages to get into trouble. He wouldn't risk his charge in that way. But it's comforting to know it's there all the same. “How about I make us some breakfast first,” he offers to his companion, the small Fae leaping upon John's arm and scurrying up to his shoulder to seat himself there cheerfully. 

“Now yer talkin'!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is late, but I've been waiting on my beta and with the holidays things tend to run late. In fact, for this chapter I am jumping my beta in order to keep you all from waiting any longer. So it might be a bit rougher than usual, but hopefully you won't notice any significant difference. Once I've gotten the chapter back I'll edit this chapter here, so you can wait if you like or just jump on in, the choice is yours. :-)

Entering into the rundown tunnels of Holborn, John and Tup walk by the yellowing tiles and the massive adverts on the walls promoting this play or that school as they make their way down toward the platform.

“How are we going to know precisely who the Oracle is? I mean, I'm sure she doesn't have a shrine or something like that out in plain sight, right?”

“Mmmmmm, that is a good question. The only thing that Mimir said about the Oracle at Holborn is that she 'works' as a busker and that you know her when you see her. Or rather, when you hear her.”

Along the way they pass several buskers but in truth John hears the Oracle long before he sees her, her beautiful and ethereal voice echoing up the tunnel causing him to stop abruptly in shock, not simply because of the beauty of her voice, but because of the words she is singing. Normally music and song that far down would be lost in the shuffle of footsteps, the roaring of the trains, and the banter of conversation. But her lyrics reach him as loud and clear as if she were singing them directly into his ear.

“He sees the dream as a condemnation,  
And those he loves never suspect.  
He doesn't want for money or things,  
He doesn't stay for respect.”

Tuppence peers up at John from his breast pocket and whispers, “Why'd yeh stop? Do yeh see her?”

Shaking his head, John whispers back, “Can't you hear her?”

“I dinnae 'ear nothin' but the usual sounds of the Underground. What do you 'ear?”

“Music like I've never heard before.” The melody is both sweet and sad, a finger-picked guitar refrain ringing out, rising and falling like the first drops of rain on a metal roof. John's head twists this way and that, trying to make out where her voice is coming from, his feet once more taking him down the steps and into the tunnel as his eyes search for what his ears hear.

“Well, be careful is all. There might be more down 'ere than jest the Oracle. Dinnae start reading too much into it, I mean, songs is songs and words are words, and jest because they sound a bit like they're about yeh, dinnae mean that they are.”

A short nod of agreement is given but in truth John is already entranced and drawn closer and closer to the source of the beautiful strains of music. He starts walking faster as her voice returns, the lyrics speaking to him on a spiritual level.

“He stands strong to find the answer,  
His sacred duty more than chance.  
The hidden truth holds a powerful outcome.  
The fortune to advance.”

John slows down as they turn a corner and come across a woman holding a guitar, her eyes closed as she sways from side to side slowly in accordance with the air of her tune. Her short curling dark hair bounces gently about high cheekbones and golden eyes open to stare straight at John from her warm brown features. She wears a medley of clothes in bright colours that shouldn't go together but do. She looks quixotic and magical even by human standards, but her aura makes it plain to see that she is magic. It is also evident that she is singing to John, for John, and about John. There is no doubt in this whatsoever. As John draws to a stop once more, Tup dares to peek out from his hiding place and whistles softly. “Cor. Now _that's_ an Oracle if I've ever seen one! Which I 'aven't.”

John slowly draws closer, amazed that the people around him just walk by her without a second glance. How can they not be taken in by her dulcet tones and honeyed voice? By her magnificent presence and music? She is like a small shining star; a guiding light in Hades' realm. She could put Sirens to shame with her sweet singing. John can only hope that she truly is the Oracle because if she is some sort of temptress instead, then God help him, he is a man lost.

“I know that the gun is the sword of your soldier.  
I know that he fell to weapons of war.  
I know that torment is a choice on your part.  
But that's not the shape of your heart.”

Drawing up to her uncertainly, John shoves his hands deep into his pockets and asks her softly, “Do you know why I am here?” She was clearly expecting him, everything about her stance, her gaze, even her words, speak to the fact that she knew John was coming. That this song is for him. With a gentle nod she continues to sing.

“You have asked for flesh and feelings,  
You have wished for human form.  
You may conceal the truth from without,  
But your soul is not the norm.”

A sickening wrench in his gut causes John to catch his breath and close his eyes, gritting his teeth against her words, as they confirm his greatest fear. He startles when he feels her hand pressing against his cheek, the Oracle's palm and fingers caressing him gently yet somehow the guitar keeps playing. She gazes into his eyes earnestly, her golden regard shifting from one pupil to the other, tears slipping down her cheeks as if she were taking on all of the pain, guilt, and horror that John has been experiencing ever since he learned he had a soul.

“If I told you that you're blameless,  
You'd maybe think that I was wrong.  
I cannot see the truth inside you;  
To whom your soul belongs.”

“Nothing. So you don't know. You can't tell me either. Not in any definitive manner.” But it's two for two now. She's confirmed for him that there is something abnormal about his soul, that it might not be his own. Mimir said much the same. John conjures up a small, sad smile for her, regretful for any pain his torment may have brought her and turns to leave. But the Oracle's fingers curl into the sleeve of his jacket, halting his progress. She has more to say to him.

“Although I speak of nothing,  
And you have paid the highest cost,  
Do not curse your luck but brace for the future,  
For those that fear are lost.”

Their eyes hold for a moment, her grip like iron as she wills him to hear her, her opposite hand coming to cup his cheek once more.

You may flounder in the darkness,  
You may sink into despair,  
But you are meant to be so much more,  
And it's because you care.

“I know that the gun is the sword of your soldier.  
I know that he fell to the weapons of war.  
I know that torment is a choice on your part.  
But that's not the shape of your heart.  
That's not the shape of your _heart_.”

Slowly her hand slips down, coming to rest upon his heart with the repeat of her refrain, as if to press those words into his tender and wounded flesh before finally returning to her instrument that has been playing all the while despite her lack of attention to it. Tossing her hair back she nods and smiles through her tears, not a small sad smile like the one John gave her, but a fierce and determined one. Take hope, her eyes say to him. All is not lost, she reassures. Oh, how he wishes he could believe that.

Both man and Fae are quiet for a long time as they make their way back to 221b Baker Street, each wrapped up in their own thoughts after the experience. John's steps are firm, determined and softly Tup murmurs, “Blimey, that was _amazing. She_ was amazing!”

“She was... is,” John concurs as he jogs across a street in order to make the light. “She might not have given me an answer or closure, but she's given me something just as valuable.”

“And wot's that?” 

“The determination not to give up. To keep looking for the answer. It's out there. It has to be. And I'm going to find it.”

“We're goin' find it!” challenges the Faery in his pocket, and with a soft chuckle John concurs. 

“Yes, we're going to find it.”

 

*****

 

The device lies in bits and pieces in front of him. Steepling his fingers before his lips, Sherlock studies them all before closing his eyes in an effort to imagine the powers and forces that he will have to call upon to bring this creation to fruition. The object before him was once a set of infrared night vision goggles, now little more than bits and bobs. Not that it will remain that way. Oh no. It will be reassembled once more, only its function will have changed. Or at least, that is the plan anyway. 

His hands raise up as he opens his eyes and ponders the problem that lies before him. To reveal that which is hidden. To practice such magic upon John directly would have potentially hazardous effects, not the least of which would be the end of their friendship and partnership. No, no that will not do. As such, the only solution is to go around the problem and in from the side. 

The goggles were the natural choice, their technological intent already in line with Sherlock's magical one – to reveal that which is under ordinary circumstances, unseen. He toyed for awhile with the debate over image enhancement versus thermal imaging, both of them utilizing different ends of the infrared spectrum. But in the end he decided to only use the the low end infrared goggles. The introduction of thermal recognition and heat, even if not as a direct correlation, had the natural risk of the magic being too literal and causing the technology to melt down. Potentially literally. No, that was not a risk he felt worth taking.

So image enhancement it is.

The dilemma, of course, is the same one that is always face when trying to merge technology and magic which is... trying to merge technology and magic. Each has their place and their abilities, but together they can create a far more potent product, which is why Mycroft has been trying to get Sherlock to work with him at the MOD since before he was even in charge of the MOD. Very few adepts can merge the two. They simply don't play nicely with one another. This can range from spells and magic actively destroying and damaging technology to the two merely cancelling each other out. Arranging the contrary powers such that their energies align and intertwine is a delicate procedure requiring the creativity of an artist, the precision of a surgeon, and the skill of an engineer. In essence, nothing short of Sherlock's own genius.

Some problems require silence and concentration, hence why Sherlock warned John once that he might go for days on end without speaking. Others, however, benefit more from a verbal exploration, ideas examined, discussed, and discarded until the right one is found. And after days of working in near silence, Sherlock longs to have a conversation to solve this dilemma.

“John, hand me that book, would you?”

One hand is extended expectantly before eyes open at the lack of appropriate weight. No, right, of course. No John. Glancing around the warehouse, Sherlock lets out a put-upon sigh. Not even his skull. Right, well, there are other ways to get what he needs. Closing his eyes once more Sherlock cups his hands in front of himself and rumbles, “Genius, manifestus.”

There is a moment before he feels a faint weight against his hands and opening his eyes Sherlock looks down at the tiny being resting upon his palms. It's person-like in appearance, though simple and nondescript like a doll. It burns and glows like it is made of fire, but the heat is negligible. Sherlock drops his palm down to the table to let the tiny Genius hop off.

“Hello,” he greets the being before cracking his knuckles decisively. “We have a lot of work to do today, so I need you to be at your very best.” The Genius flashes brightly, as if offended it would be anything less than brilliant, but says nothing. It always takes a little while for them to take on a definitive form once they've manifested, but Sherlock can wait. He has plenty of time. They say that the more you work with your Genius, the more they take a specific and familiar appearance, but his has always remained as thus – a small creature made of flame and voice and nothing more. He used to wonder about it but has long since given up caring what his Genius looks like so long as it's useful to him.

Gathering up the book before him, he skims through the pages thoughtfully, writing down notes as the various possibilities occur to him.

There are a great number of biblical passages about things that are hidden and secret, but every religion has such forbidden knowledge and Sherlock has never particularly cared for the tenets of Christianity. Besides, it's always God that knows what is buried deep and remains unseen, but he rarely seems to the sort to share that information. 

“Right, so, who shall we invoke in order to get the ball rolling, hmmmm? I suppose before we can answer that we have to consider what we are dealing with. Secrets. Things that are hidden. Uncovering the truth.”

The Genius' voice is disembodied and slightly flat, without any discernible accent as it suggests, “If you're looking for something secret, Hecate is a goddess of the night and witchcraft, but she is also known as a keeper of secrets and mysteries. If true, then that along with her night aspect would work well with both finding that which is hidden and the nature of the goggles.”

“She is also a goddess of crossroads and entranceways. Under different circumstances I would say that she would be an excellent choice as a gatekeeper to call upon to help with the binding of the spells to the goggles. But if she is known as the _keeper_ of secrets she may very help work against us in an effort to protect John and cover his secret in shadows and deceit. What other options do you suggest?”

“Odin is a god of magic and scholarship. He might do well with uncovering something that is secret.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock rumbles, “No, not Odin. For one he's too much of a trickster – I don't think I could rely on him with any real degree of safety and for another I've already consulted Mimir with little effect. No, I don't think this is a problem that can be solved by scholarship and knowledge of texts. This is more subtle and arcane than that.”

“Then that eliminates Thoth, the Egyptian god of knowledge. Perhaps Set? Among other things he is the known to be a God of secrets after all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand toward his Genius. “Oh yes, and those 'other things' being primarily the God of Chaos and War? No, the last thing I want to introduce into this process is anything involving chaos or violence. Stability and reliability are paramount.” Sherlock's head tilts as he jots down some notes. “I think I will call upon Prometheus again. He is an ancient tool user, fond of humans, and he brought light in the form of fire to mankind. All of these connect well with how the technology works and light offers both heat and illumination, so potentially revealing that which is hidden by darkness. He would make an excellent gatekeeper and I've used him before. I know he's reliable and trustworthy.”

“Very well. What else do you require?” The voice is no longer flat and is now decidedly British, with a cheerfully curious cadence to it, taking no offense at Sherlock's dismissal of his suggestions.

Tapered fingers lightly touch upon the various elements of the goggles as he considers them thoughtfully. “There are many parts to this. Each piece of the goggles is going to require a different spell to be placed upon it such that it enhances the function rather than detracts or distracts from it. The lenses admit light – I will most likely need to replace them with something else. Perhaps a scrying glass – something with which to see into John and beyond the veil of perception. Then we have the mirrors which bounce light clearly up into the sensors. Those might be scrying mirrors so as not to scramble or change the data...”

“Brilliant,” replies the Genius, drawing closer to study what Sherlock is jotting down in his notebook.

Oblivious to the Genius' approach and praise, Sherlock is in his element, mind clicking with ideas and theories, as he begins to sketch out diagrams and make notes. “The sensors translate the image and are circuit-based – I'd like to do something here but it's risky, so we'll leave those well alone.”

The Genius tugs on Sherlock's sleeve to get his attention, pointing out, “Isn't that _too_ much of a risk though? The circuits might refuse the magical translation and the whole thing will fail. What about Maa, the Egyptian God of Sight? He sees more than most, which plays into your desire to reveal that which is hidden, and he gifts his closest allies with enhanced perception. He's also fairly obscure as Gods go, so all the more likely to appreciate a call for his powers and respond positively.”

Taken aback at the sudden enthusiastic gushing Sherlock lifts his head to glance at the Genius and then stops and stares. It's no longer a flame-like creature, but a small person with nondescript features, sandy blonde hair, and what looks like the beginning of some sort of clothing. Curious. His head tilts to one side as he takes in the changed appearance. “Excellent suggestion. Fetch me that book over there so I can look up his methods and hieroglyphs.” He watches as the tiny Genius scurries over books and around tools to grab the one in question, heaving it up with a soft grunt and dragging it back toward Sherlock.

Once the book is in his possession he flips through the pages until he finds the section on Maa. It takes only a few minutes of scanning the pages for his face to light up with excitement and success. “Excellent work, Genius. Alright, so that takes care of the sensors which send the data into computerised components that transmit it back to the screen where the human eye reads it.” Pursing his lips, Sherlock ponders whether he'll need yet another spell for this or if the preceding ones will cover the matter. “It's a question of communication then – sending the right information from the sensors to the transmission components to the screen to the eye. Our work with Prometheus, the scrying glass and mirror along with Maa give us a strong base to work form. I'll add into here a spell of communication, perhaps call upon a god or goddess of communication. The question now is, which one? There's Iris, Greek goddess so perhaps I'll leave her out for being insufficiently British. Mercury is an obvious choice, being that he's not just a God of communication and messages but also of divination, which can't hurt in this situation. He's also the God of eloquence and luck, but he does have a strong interest in trickery as well, which might be problematic.”

“Do you have a good relationship with him?”

Sherlock's shoulders shrug as he muses, “I believe so? I don't recall actively pissing him off lately.”

“So in other words, more likely than not you've pissed him off.”

One brow crooks at the sassy commentary, but Sherlock's nose is still buried in his books, no time to chide his cheeky companion. “I think the benefits of working with Mercury outweigh the negative risks.” Leaning back in his seat, eyes still upon his work, Sherlock lifts one hand to tick through what they've resolved so far. “Right, so Prometheus for human compassion, tool use, and the gift of light, to make a positive connection with the goggles as a whole. Maa for improved sight and a clear translation of the image. Mercury for clear communication between the various elements of the technology. I think that will be all that is necessary for the spells and incantations. I'll use a bit of hair to connect it to John specifically.”

“Really? Why so?” 

“Well, if I leave it generalised the technology could get overwhelmed by the amount of magical input and fry the sensors. There are many things that are hidden from the eye, both magical and mundane. I don't want to see _everything_ that is hidden. That would be maddening and possibly even blinding. No, it would be far more effective to make the device specific to John. Less chance for things to be misinterpreted or unclear.”

Stretching idly, Sherlock cracks his neck from side to side before reaching for a large leather-bound tome to his left, flipping through the pages thoughtfully. “What do you think? I could start with either a location spell or a lost-and-found spell. Location seems like a better choice because I know the general area that I'm searching and I don't have to specify any particular item.”

“But you're not looking for a place, you're looking for a thing, yes?” 

“Not precisely. I'm looking for the truth, for what is hidden.” Sitting upright, Sherlock's eyes narrow thoughtfully as he muses, “So a truth spell blended with a spell of finding should do the trick. Turning to the Genius without moving his eyes from the pages before him, he asks it absently, “Now the question is, go with the best spell or a spell of the right origin?”

“Origin?” The small voice is curious, interested, and oddly familiar but Sherlock only notices that in a very absent-minded sort of way, his mind intent upon the work at hand. 

“Mmmmm. If we match the origin of the spell with where the goggles were created we increase the likelihood of a successful bonding by 23%.”

“23%. That's rather specific.” There's a small pause before the Genius asks, “You sure you're not just making that number up?”

“No John, I'm not. Now go and be useful for a change and hand me that book, will you?” Sherlock orders, gesturing absently with his right hand at a book that is out of his reach whilst still flipping pages with his left hand and scanning them intently.

There's a long suffering sigh and then the sound of a book being pushed along the table before it reaches Sherlock's elbow. “You need me to turn to the right page for you as well or can you manage that yourself?”

“Hmmm? Oh, page 28 please.”

There's another small huff of annoyance, but once again there is the sounds of obedience which, in this case, sounds like the flipping of pages in a book.

“The goggles are manufactured in Britain, so if we're going with spells of origin, then we're looking at Roman or Celtic ideally.”

“Prometheus was a Greek Titan.” 

“Details, details, so he's not a perfect match. He doesn't have to be. He's the link between the magic and the machine. He's the gatekeeper. So long as he can keep the peace between the two, the rest will simply aid in the technology accepting the magic. Mercury is Roman, so that will help. Maa is Egyptian but as you noted likely eager for attention.”

Rising up Sherlock picks up his notebook and moves over to a meticulously clean table. Taking a thick black marker instead of his usual chalk he begins by drawing circles within circles. The innermost ring is annotated in Greek to call upon the powers of Prometheus first. The magic will well from the centre of the circle first, then flow outward, each section rippling into the next. Each circle is painstakingly drawn and marked with the symbols and words necessary to form and build the complete spell. Once the circles are all drawn Sherlock dons a pair of conservation gloves to help reduce the risk of dust, oils, or fingerprints getting on any of the technology and begins placing each piece carefully within its own ring. Hieroglyphs, Latin, Greek, arcane symbols and bits of hair, pieces of technology; it's a complicated bit of magic and the slightest thing wrong could throw the entire spell out of whack.

Once finished Sherlock wipes the sweat from his brow and straightens up, placing his hands upon his hips, staring down at the various circles and parts placed within. “Right, time to bring it all together then.”

“Amazing,” breathes the Genius and turning around Sherlock stares for a moment at what for all intents and purposes looks like a tiny pocket version of John Watson. The Genius has seated itself along the edge of the table, tiny jean clad legs dangling over the edge and waving back and forth like a child might. A black and white jumper covers its torso and its voice and face, hair and features, are unmistakably John's. Blinking in surprise, Sherlock has no idea what to make of the transformation, but he finds a smile curling his lips. He wonders just how much the Genius is like John.

“God, you're short.”

“Oi, piss off you wanker,” retorts the Genius good naturedly before rising to its feet and lifting its gaze to Sherlock's face. “Are you ready to do the spell now?”

Right, very much like John then. Smiling indulgently at the tiny version of his flatmate, Sherlock figures he could do far worse when it came to the final form of his Genius. After all, John has proven himself time and time again to be an excellent source of inspiration. “Indeed. Now hush, I need to concentrate.”

Reaching up into the air Sherlock's lips open as he calls upon the magic in Latin, in Greek, his hands tracing out hieroglyphic symbols since the ancient Egyptian language has been tragically lost. Each piece of the spell is orchestrated as it comes to him, settling it one bit here, placing another power there, making sure that each spell is in its proper place, that each invocation comes with the right intonation and promises. The power builds around Sherlock in a rich and compelling crescendo of sound and he is rewarded by the fact that nothing rings shrill or sharp in the crafting of the magic. Taking a deep breath Sherlock lifts his arms up high in front of him and then sweeps them down and outward. A tiny crack of thunder rings out as the magic coalesces and plummets down to the centre of the circle in what looks like a small explosion, rippling outward in waves of power and energy through each of the concentric rings and then vanishing into nothing.

For a long moment all is silent and still, Sherlock's hands slowly dropping down to his sides before a tiny pair of hands start clapping as Genius John cries out, “Fantastic! Now what?”

Oh yes, very much like John. “Now? Now we get back to work my small friend. We have to put all of this back together and I'm just hoping we don't end up with any left over parts at the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D
> 
> The Oracle's song is based off of Sting's "Shape of My Heart"


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So unbeknownst to me, my beta has been traveling and having a Real Life (tm) so as a result I'm going to jump her once again so as to be able to post the next chapter on time. For those who care about getting a perfect (bwuahahahahahahahahaha!) product, I will be updating the chapter with her edits once I get them. But until then, you can have my flawed version thereof, because I'm just too damn impatient for my own good. ;-)

After dropping Tup back off at the flat John found himself restless for something to do other than putter around 221b. His various aches and pains reminded him of the events of the previous day and he suddenly was struck by the idea of stopping in to check on Elizabeth Neill. He would just pop by to see how she was recovering from being threatened by demons disguised as human thugs, and, if she seemed to be doing alright, perhaps he could talk with her about Westie's friends and co-workers and gain some potentially useful information. At least this way he would be contributing something to the effort to find the Prometheus drive.

Arriving in Acton, John makes his way to Elizabeth's flat, his hand hesitating for a moment before rapping on the door. He's not sure what to expect, but it's nothing like the greeting he receives when Elizabeth Neill opens the door with a smile on her face, blurting out, “I thought you said you couldn't... oh!” She's clearly surprised and thrown off by his presence on her doorstep, her cheerful greeting dissolving into a mix of surprise and anxiety. “Oh, Dr. Watson, I wasn't expecting you.”

John is thrown off by her initially cheerful demeanor, but acts as if the flub never occurred. “No, no sorry I should have called first. I didn't want to bother you during this... ah, difficult time, but I wanted to check in with you after what happened yesterday. Make sure that you're alright and all that.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, please, come in, come in.” It's clear that she's flustered and off-center, her voice and her mannerisms awkward and uncertain in the wake of his arrival and John can't help but wonder at her erratic shift in behavior from two days ago to yesterday and now to today. Could it be the MOD altered something more than just her memories? Concerned, John steps inside.

“I'm sorry about that,” she apologizes, her eyes flickering nervously about the room as she gestures to the sofa in an invitation for him to sit. “I thought you were an old friend of mine come to visit. She said she wouldn't be able to make it until later but when I heard the knock I thought...”

“You thought it was your friend and right now you could use all of your friends around you, yes of course. Sorry to be a disappointment.”

“No, no, I, no, I should be the one to apologize. You are not a disappointment Dr. Watson, just a surprise is all. I wasn't expecting to see you today.”

Taking the proffered seat, John offers her a warm and friendly smile, putting on his best bedside manners. “Well, I just wanted to make sure that you were doing alright, if you had any questions or concerns after the attack yesterday.”

Sitting down on the sofa that she was pulled through just the day before, Liz shakes her head. “Honestly? I'm more than a little embarrassed, but I don't actually remember that much about what happened. I remember the men barging in, I remember calling you and you coming over, but after that things are something of a blur. I gather the police arrived and managed to arrest them all, but I must have fainted or something?”

Nodding his head, John concurs, “Something like that, yes. It's not unusual at all, to forget pieces of a traumatic event, and what with it occurring just days after the death of your fiancée.”

“Oh, ah, yes, yes of course. Very disturbing. You must forgive me if I seem a little strange. I guess a part of me is still in shock over, well, over _everything_.”

Nodding, John murmurs reassuringly, “Well, that's reasonable.” Rubbing his hands on his thighs he glances around the living room. “Well, the other reason I dropped by was to ask you if you knew any of Westie's coworkers? If they'd ever come round...” His voice trails off as he realizes something is odd about the space. It's... emptier. Turning his head, John realizes that there's a packing box in the corner and a suitcase by the door. Turning to Liz, he blinks and then forces a smile to his lips as he asks, “You taking a trip?”

Flushing almost guiltily, Liz cranes her head about him to catch a glimpse of the suitcase and then lets out a nervous little laugh. “Oh, that. Well, yes. It's... difficult, to be here you see. After Westie and all. So my friend, she offered to have me over at her place for a bit. You know, just to get out of the flat and away from so many memories.”

“Ahhh, sure, of course. It must be difficult.”

“It is, Dr. Watson. It really is. As for your question, I didn't really know any of Westie's mates from work. He always seemed keen on keeping those sorts of things separate, y'know? Work is work, fun is fun. Besides he was something of an introvert. That's what I like about him, really.” She pauses then, catching the mistake and correcting herself. “Liked. What I liked about him. It was just the two of us, y'know? Us against the world? It was nice having him all to myself, not having to share him with a lot of drunken mates from work.” 

It's obvious that she's uncomfortable with his presence in the flat and disinterested in discussing the matter of Westie's friends any further. John knows when it's best to push and when to cut his losses and he doesn't possess Sherlock's knack for getting a rise and a response out of people. But then it's not in his nature to be either deceptive or harsh. Rising up John offers his hand and shakes hers when she offers it in turn. “Well, thank you for your time. Sorry for interrupting you. If you think of anything, here's my number. Call me any time.”

Rising to her feet Elizabeth stares at the number for a moment before pushing it deep into the pocket of her jeans and bobbing her head. “Right. Well, thank you, Dr. Watson. For what you did yesterday and for coming 'round today. Appreciate it.” But she holds the door open for him pointedly, her smile stretched over her lips uncomfortably.

“Right then, I'll be off.” Stepping outside the flat John walks down the street a block before pulling out his mobile as he turns the corner. Pressing his back against the wall John considers what just happened along with a niggling suspicion that's just been upgraded to a genuine possibility. A familiar cool voice answers the phone. “Yes, Dr. Watson?”

“Anthea. Listen, are we keeping watch on Elizabeth Neill?”

“There's no need to worry about Ms. Neill, Dr. Watson. It's highly unlikely she's going to be targeted again, and the building has been proofed against demons.”

“No, no it's not that, it's Liz. I think she knows something. I think she might do a runner.” Taking another breath, John pushes on and adds, “I think... I think Westie might have faked his death.”

There's a moment of silence from the other end of the line before Anthea inquires coolly, “Why do you think that?”

“Well, it doesn't match his profile at all, but you have to admit the circumstantial evidence is all pretty damning. He disappears with a highly valuable piece of data, he's found 'dead'... and who IDed the body?”

Anthea pauses for another significant moment before replying, “The fiancée.” 

“Right, right, bloody convenient, no? She could be in on it.”

“But he was also matched by his records and the pathologist.”

“Which pathologist? The one that suddenly nobody can find? How convenient is that? Lizzie Neill identifies the body of her fiancée and proclaims it's him. The pathologist confirms that and supposedly takes just enough samples to prove the body was Westie's but then there's a mix-up at the morgue and in less than 24 hours from his supposed death Cadogan West is cremated by accident. No one else can confirm that it was his body that was found at the train tracks and brought in. No way to prove anything now.”

“Why this sudden change in opinion, Dr. Watson?”

Pushing off the wall, John continues on his way down the street. “I just came from Liz Neill's flat. She smiled when she opened the door, clearly expecting someone else. The entire time I was there she was flustered and trying to cover for the mistake. She had a suitcase by the door and there were signs that she was packing up at least part of the flat.”

“So you think she's going to run off, try to meet Westie somewhere?”

“It's certainly a possible theory. Look, all I'm suggesting is that you assign someone to keep an eye on her flat, an eye on her, and if she leaves, follow her. Maybe she was telling the truth and she's just going to spend some time with a friend of hers to get away from the memories of Westie, but if I'm right and there's more to it...”

“She could potentially lead us directly to Mr. West, yes I understand. Can you keep an eye on her flat?”

Pausing in his stride, John turns about and ponders the matter before noting, “Someone else would likely be better. She knows me. If she spotted me she would know that something was up. Better it be someone she hasn't seen before. Less chance of spooking her.”

His mobile pings in his ear. “Hold on a moment Anthea, I have another call coming in.” It takes John a moment to remember how to put one call on hold whilst picking up another, wondering who would be calling him.

“Hello?”

“Hello, John?” The unexpected voice of Sarah Sawyer greets him uncertainly and in the background John can hear what sounds like a baby crying very loudly.

“Sarah? What is it? Everything alright?”

“Heh. That's the farthest thing from the truth. Look, we have a bit of a problem here at the clinic. Dr. Barnhart called in sick and Dr. Rahman just started puking in the bathroom and we have a lobby full of patients. I know it's awfully last minute, but could you possibly come in for a few hours and bail us out?”

“Ahhhh, sure, I think so, let me just check right quick and get back to you, okay?”

“Yeah, of course, sure. Just, sooner rather than later, okay?”

Chuckling softly, John replies, “Of course. Hang in there.”

“Thanks,” Sarah replies, her tone cheeky and sardonic.

Letting her go, John returns to Anthea whilst turning about and heading back toward Liz's flat. “Look something's come up and I'm needed at surgery. I can watch Liz Neill's door until you find someone to cover and then, if you don't need me so much today, I could really use the hours and it sounds like the clinic could really use the help.”

“That will be fine, Dr. Watson. I'll have someone over to Ms. Neill's flat right away. I think I can handle the interviews for today. We'll reconvene tomorrow.”

“Right, thanks. Happy, umm, investigating.”

Ringing off, John settles himself in a nearby coffee shop from which he has a reasonable view of Elizabeth Neill's front door, but it's conveniently kitty-corner from the flat so as to keep him reasonably out of sight in turn. Ordering a cup of coffee to pass the time, John quietly muses over the case in his mind, pondering over the matter uncertainly. When they first met he could have sworn that Lizzie Neill was genuinely mourning her fiancées death. Under the circumstances one might argue that she was simply an excellent actress except for today she was all over the place, clearly flustered and hiding something. If she was good enough an actress to fool him on their first meeting, how could she not be good enough to fool him on their second? Unless, somehow, she wasn't faking the first time. But something changed. Perhaps she really believed that Westie was dead. But if she identified the body, then that would mean...

A soft cough by his shoulder has John looking up at a man wearing a suit and a bland expression. Before John can even form a question the man replies, “Anthea sent me. You are relieved.”

“Ah, right, ta then,” John returns amiably, rising up and finishing off his coffee before bequeathing his seat to the man. Right. To the clinic then. He would ponder the strange case of Cadogan West's death later it would seem. 

After a few minutes of walking John finds himself slowing down his pace as he draws close to the T. He hesitates for only a moment before taking a sharp turn and changing direction. 

It's back again. That strange itching sensation, as if something were slithering just beneath his skin. He knows what it means now and he doesn't like it one bit. He's being followed, watched, and by a demon. Damn Mycroft and this stupid case! Whatever this thing is it's smarter than the demons he's faced so far and powerful. It's hiding, or it's trying to at least. But it knows that John is a powerful Sensitive and it's deliberately staying just out of his range. He tries as much as he can to get a look at it, but the damned thing is clever enough to stay out of sight. Well, two can play at that game. 

Crossing the street, John jogs up the front steps of Our Lady of Lourdes Roman Catholic Church and enters inside. John doesn't know if it's because he's a Sensitive or if it's due to him once being an angel, but churches are like gentle beacons to him throughout the city of London. They're always calling to him and making their presence known. But even better, whatever is following him can't follow him inside here and it can't sense John through the holy walls. But John can sense it. Glancing at his watch John takes his time strolling through the nave, admiring the golden sanctuary arching over the altar. He can be patient, he can be very patient. How patient, however, is this demon? 

The church feels good, familiar, even if it is a human construct rather than a divine one. John skims his hands along rough stone walls and smooth wooden pews, even sits for awhile and gazes at the stained glass windows, enjoying the peace and quiet of the holy space. Then, after waiting for thirty minutes he rises up and walks the inner perimeter of the building, his hand trailing along the walls whenever possible, senses reaching out to find the demon. Just as he's drawing close to the back door he senses it, a sharp burning sensation sizzling along the edges of his awareness. Ahhhhh. There you are. Gotcha. It thinks he's come in for confession or prayer. It thinks he'll leave by the front door and as such lies in wait by the back door – far enough away to remain hidden from John's Sight, but close enough to sense his departure. Well, time to turn the tables.

Reaching into his pocket he pulls out the bottle of holy water that Anthea gave him the night before. He lays his hand upon the door and sharpens his sight before shoving on it hard and fast.

The demon is large, enormous really, lying upon the ground like a viscous fog made up of too many eyes and too many teeth surrounded by undulating darkness. The demon jerks upright in surprise, but John doesn't waste a moment as he snaps the bottle at the monster, holy water flinging out in a blessing spray. “Piss OFF!”

The water strikes the demon in several places and, like acid, burns through wherever it hits the thick misty layers. A nearly shrill scream rises up into the air, like the sound of teakettle shrieking, and smoke rises up from its substantial wounds. The demon swirls around in circles upon itself, teeth gnashing and eyes rolling before it simply vanishes with a sharp popping sound. In reaction the heavens above release a crack of thunder that causes more than a few pedestrians to glance up in confusion at the unseasonably blue and nearly cloudless sky.

Huffing in annoyance, John recaps the bottle and shakes one fist, calling out to whatever might still be lingering in the area, “And stay out!”

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


“John, thank you for coming in last minute like this.”

Pulling off his jacket, John hangs it up as he glances over his shoulder at Sarah. “No problem at all. Sorry it took me so long. Ran into a bit of a problem on the way. But it's all good. Good to be here and have something regular to do after the past few days.” His head cranes around the corner to where the lobby is overfilled with impatient patients and fussy children.

“Ha ha, you won't be saying that for long. Your crazy flatmate keeping you busy again?” Sarah's heard enough of John's stories over lunch to know all about Sherlock and his various cases.

John bobbles his head from side to side as he prevaricates, “Something like that, yeah. More or less.”

Turning toward his exam room, he waves her on and replies, “Just have the RN send in the first one. We'll whittle down this bunch in no time.”

“Thanks again, John, you're an angel.”

As Sarah walks away, John chuckles and murmurs under his breath, “You have nooooo idea.” before pushing through the door.

No time, however, turns out to be hours and John can't remember the last time he's seen so many children in one day with varying degrees of chicken pox. All from the same school, no less. But that's the way it is with these things. One child gets it and the next thing you know the entire school is down with it.

The nurse enters his office and pipes up cheerfully, “Good news. Here's your last patient for the day.” 

Cracking his neck, John reaches out for the files that she hands him and flips it open to look at the intake paperwork asking, “What have we got here?”

“Regular patient, but he asked for you specifically. His heart rate and blood pressure are a little high as is his temperature, but otherwise he seems alright. Says that he's suffering from tremors in his hands and legs. Claims he's never experienced them before today.”

Flipping through the man's past medical history, John's eyes narrow in concentration before he nods and gestures toward the door. “Right, well, I'll see what I can find out, shall I?” 

Rising up from this desk, John makes his way to the exam room and knocks twice, waiting for the man inside to invite him in before opening the door and greeting him. “Hello there Mr. Flavisham. I'm Dr. Watson. How are you feeling today? 

The man seated on the chair is heavy set, with ruddy cheeks, brown eyes and brown hair to match. Sure enough John can see a slight tremor in his right hand as well as his right leg, each vibrating as if they were plucked strings. 

“Well, I'm not rightly sure. I've been feeling very strangely today. Been experiencing tremors in my hands and legs, even though I can't think of anything that I might have done to make that happen.”

“You haven't been doing any unusually hard physical labor? Sometimes if you push a muscle too hard you weaken it, and this results in a tremor during certain physical activities, like lifting something or going down stairs...”

“No, nothing.... nothing at all it's just....” 

John is totally unprepared as the man shoots straight out of his chair, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and his arms suddenly shaking spasmodically before his legs collapse beneath him. He falls to the floor in a graceless heap, his entire body jerking and flailing uncontrollably.

Seizure. Not necessarily serious or life threatening, but John quickly kneels next to the man to make sure he didn't injure himself in the fall and holds him steady as he thrashes upon the floor. The episode should pass soon and the best thing to do now is to remain calm, make sure he doesn't harm himself, and wait it out. Sure enough after a minute of shaking Mr. Flavisham's body steadies and slows, his eyes opening and blinking slowly.

“Mr. Flavisham, can you hear me? It's Dr. Watson and you've just had a seizure, but there's nothing to worry about, I just want you to rest here for a moment and catch your breath.” What John is not expecting is the deep accented voice that emerges from his patient's mouth.

“So, John. I hear you've been looking for me.”

John freezes, looking down into the man's face before asking uncertainly, “Eshu?”

“Who else would it be coming to you in this way? What, were you expecting some other God?”

“I, no, no it's just that it's been awhile and I wasn't sure that you got my message.”

“Oh, I got your message alright. Thank you for the offering, I've just been busy and it seemed that you have been so as well.” The man's head tilts to one side before he sits up and stares at John intently, eyes drifting to his left shoulder before returning to his face. “Are you needing another favor now? You haven't even paid for the first one yet.”

Shaking his head John leans forward and asks intently, “What did you do?”

A bright cheerful smile breaks over the man's face. “You'll have to speak more clearly than that.”

Licking his lips anxiously, John huffs and clarifies. “When you made this body, what did you do to the original body? What did you do to John Watson?”

“Nothing. This body is 100% fabricated just for you. I copied the genetics, I copied the memories and experience – all is just as it was. You have the ashes to prove that.”

“Ashes are easier to fake than a body. And even easier than a soul.”

“A soul?”

“Yes, damn you, a soul! Why did you give me John Watson's soul?”

Eshu frowns in irritation but nonetheless leans forward and looks at John more carefully, squinting and peering before he clucks his tongue and announces. “Not my work. Good work, that, but not my work. You took on a debt for a body, not a body and a soul. That would have been _much_ more expensive.” His shoulders shrug with expressive disinterest. “Maybe somebody gave you a soul. Maybe you stole a soul. Maybe John Watson's soul was lost and found your body whilst roaming the Earth looking for home. Your body might not be his, but it's as close a place to home as it can find.” Clucking again he dismisses the issue. “Not my doing. Not my problem.”

John jerks back as if struck. “That's it then? There's nothing else you can tell me?”

“I have already told you what I know. Now, if you want something more, that will cost you. Or do you think you can just demand favors of Eshu? You don't even have an offering for me. No coconuts or candy, no cigars or liquor? And yet here you sit, making demands of me? You should be grateful to me. Grateful!” The normally placid eyes of his patient narrow in anger as he lifts up a finger and waggles it threateningly. “Beware, John Watson. You do not want to get on the wrong side of Eshu. If you think your life is difficult now, imagine how much worse it will be if you enrage me.” Dark eyes flash with a hint of fire and rage just simmering below the surface.

“No, alright, I'm sorry, you said that it will cost me. What are we talking about....”

But Eshu is nothing if not capricious. His hands slicing through the air as he cuts John off. “No! No more talking! I'm finished with you, John Watson. Your debt must still be repaid and until it is, you shall not be granted another one. And until I decide what the payment is, you will not call for me again!”

The man suddenly gasps and slumps backward as Eshu departs abruptly, John lunging forward to catch Mr. Flavisham's shoulder so he doesn't hit his head upon the floor. His emotions are in turmoil but John has to remain calm and relaxed as he eases his patient back down to the floor. “Easy there, Mr. Flavisham. Try to relax. You just had a seizure. Just as soon as you're feeling better we'll get you set up with a series of tests...”

 

*****

 

Sherlock is practically bouncing with excitement, striding about the flat, climbing up and over furniture in his way rather than going around it, all in his eagerness for his flatmate to come back home. The goggles rest on the living room table and his fingers are itching to put them on and take a look at John. Where is he? What could he possibly be doing? Oh, he knows where he is alright, off at that dreadful little doctor's office dealing with trivial coughs and complaints. A waste of his talents. John deserves something more challenging, more exciting. His hand is steady enough now, really, Sherlock doesn't understand why John puts up with the tedium of such a mediocre job.

When the door downstairs opens and closes, Sherlock practically throws himself onto the couch, shifting gears from visibly vibrating with restrained energy to lying like a limp rag doll. Mustn't act suspicious. Mustn't make it look like he has anything more than a desultory interest in John's return to the flat. No, no, calm, peaceful, placid. Calm, calm. Through great practice and determination Sherlock is able to feign benign disinterest on the outside, but on the inside he feels like he's crawling with fire ants of anticipation.

The door to the flat opens and he cracks one eye to peer at John, deducing him right away. “That's an inordinately large number of children for you to see. Must have been an outbreak of chicken pox then? Whooping cough?” 

Shaking his head in amazement, John hangs up his coat with a soft chuckle. “Can you at least wait until I've sat down before you start deducting my entire life?”

He seems to be in a good mood, possibly a bit tired. “What would be the point of that? It's not like you have to _do_ anything. Just be yourself.” Swinging his feet to the floor, Sherlock picks up the goggles and stares at them before lifting his gaze to John's unsuspecting back. Heading into the kitchen, John flicks on the light and checks the kettle, filling it with fresh water and then starting it before coming back out, leaning against the jamb and folding his arms over each other as he returns Sherlock's regard. “Yes, per usual, you got it in one. Large outbreak of chicken pox. And what have you been doing all day, hmmmm? Getting into trouble?”

“No more than usual,” Sherlock replies offhand, fingers lightly stroking the device in his hands. Here is is, the moment of truth. “I'm glad you're home though. You get to help me test these out.”

John's cheerful expression falters slightly as his gaze drops to the goggles in Sherlock's hands. “Oh? Dare I ask what those are?”

“An experiment. But I need a living person to use as a comparison.”

“A living person, hmmmm? I suppose I qualify for the position. Still waiting on an answer, though before I agree to be your personal guinea pig.”

“Pffft. The goggles are the experiment, John, not you. Something I've been working on all day. They're to help me see through things.”

Tilting his head to one side in bemusement John echoes, “See through things. Like x-ray vision? Like Superman?”

“Superwho?”

“Superman, Sherlock, you must know who Superman is. You can't have erased him.”

“If he's some sort of cleaning commercial jingle character I most certainly did.”

Rubbing his hands through his hair, John blows out a breath that is two parts amused to one part incredulous. “Right, well then, so long as your experiment isn't going to blow up or do anything untoward to me, you have my permission to, well, goggle me.” Turning back to the kitchen John asks brightly, “Care for a cuppa?”

Here it is. The moment of truth. Taking a deep breath Sherlock pulls the goggles over his head and carefully settles them into place before turning them on. He can hear the machinery of the device and he can feel the magic of it, and for a moment he holds very, very still, not entirely certain despite his earlier tests that it won't, in fact, blow up on him. Hopefully if it does it will not do so literally.

“You alright in there? I'm serious now, there isn't a chance of that exploding is there?”

“Everything is fine, John.” Opening his eyes Sherlock slowly looks about the living room but for all intents and purposes it looks perfectly normally. Good. That's precisely how it should look. Nothing should look different when he's looking at it. Nothing except John, that is. Still, Sherlock takes the time to carefully look about the flat, slowly turning about to take in everything, especially those objects and tomes that he knows contain secret and hidden things within them.

Nothing. Nothing at all. Perfect.

“Right then, I fixed you a cuppa anyways.” Emerging from the kitchen John draws to a halt with the two cups in his hand, staring at Sherlock before shivering slightly. “Huh. That takes me back.”

Turning to John, Sherlock can barely control his excitement and a second later he can barely control his disappointment. John stands there looking perfectly normal with only one exception. His left shoulder glows vividly. Not the shoulder as a whole, but a craggy, misshapen hole, undoubtably the scar left from when he was shot during the war. Crossing over to John, Sherlock takes the proffered cup and asks, “What, the war?”

Nodding John swallows. “Yeah. There were more than a few night missions. How can you bear it in this light?”

“I altered them, remember?”

“Ah, right, so do you have x-ray vision now?”

Stepping back Sherlock stares at John's shoulder and the wound hidden there beneath his plain brown jumper before once more scanning over the rest of him. John's always been rather private and reserved when it comes to his wound, refusing to show it to Sherlock when he once asked to see it. He claimed that it was ugly and nothing worth looking at before dismissing the request and changing the subject. Something private. Something hidden. Something John doesn't want to be seen.

The spell succeeded and failed in one fell swoop.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?”

His head shifts, goggles meeting John's eyes before he shakes his head and pulls the goggles off with a frustrated sigh. “No, no x-ray vision. Least not of the sort I was trying for.” With a grunt of annoyance he places the goggles back down on the table and his cup of tea next to them before flopping down with a grimace. “Back to the drawing board,” he mutters under his breath.

Blowing across the surface of his tea, John takes a tentative sip before offering his condolences. “Ahhh, sorry Sherlock. I'm sure you'll figure it out though.”

Lifting his eyes to John's face, Sherlock feels his resolution strengthening and nods. “Yes, John. I will most definitely figure it out.”

John frowns slightly at the weight of Sherlock's regard, forcing Sherlock to turn his head away lest he betray his true thoughts to his flatmate and friend. Placing his hands before his lips, Sherlock stares at the goggles instead, cursing them silently for showing him nothing.

Ahhhh, but what if there is nothing to see?

It vexes Sherlock deeply that the intently he looks, the harder he searches, the less evidence he finds indicating that John is anything more than what he appears to be. It is becoming harder and harder in the face of such evidence to continue his quest for the answer to a riddle that might not even exist. Anyone else would say that they have a 'gut' feeling, but Sherlock eschews such sentimental and emotional justifications. But if so, how _can_ he defend his behavior is the face of such overwhelming odds against what is little more than a hunch?

Perhaps Mimir was right. Perhaps there is nothing to see here and he is chasing the dragon to think otherwise. 

“ Faced off with a demon today, again,” John announces, bringing Sherlock out of his reverie, his silver startled eyes lifting up to John's face. 

“What, you didn't deduce that? Didn't smell the waft of incense on my clothes or notice the holy water that I spilled on my sweater?”

Eyes narrow as Sherlock scan's John's clothes asking, “Did you spill holy water on your sweater?”

“Nope. Threw it on the demon instead.”

He has something new to focus on, something more satisfying than pondering the folly of his actions. With genuine interest, Sherlock replies, “Tell me.”

The more John tells Sherlock the story, however, the more perturbed he becomes. Melmoth. He didn't listen. He got too close. Did he not realize that John could sense him? Was he merely watching John, or is it possible that he had something to do with the demons that attacked the werewolves and thus endangered John? Why was he following John so closely today? Was he trying to bait him, irritate him? He shouldn't have been noticeable to John at all! That was Sherlock's order and the only question now is if it was an accident or if he deliberately disobeyed. And if the latter, then how?

For the first time since he began this quest, Sherlock feels a hint of doubt and uncertainty with the measures he has chosen. Perhaps Mimir was right about a great many things. Tomorrow, he decides. Tomorrow I will tell Melmoth to stand down and leave John Watson alone. This is folly. He has learned nothing and showed his hand like an amateur. And at the worst, he has found a way to stretch the rules and boundaries, breaking Sherlock's explicit orders when it should be impossible for him to do so intentionally. His services are most definitely no longer required.

“Sherlock? Sherlock. Look, if you're not interested just bloody tell me and I'll stop boring you.”

Shaken out of his reverie, Sherlock blinks. “What? No, not at all John. I was riveted by your story.”

John is clearly having none of it and looks quite put out. “I finished it five minutes ago. You've just been staring off into space for the last twenty.”

“Have I?”

“Annnnnnd, that's it. I'm done. I'm reheating some take-out. You can fend for your own supper.” 

Sherlock watches, confused as John stomps his way into the kitchen. Clearly he made a mistake in getting distracted by his thoughts, but it certainly isn't the first time that he's done so. Then again, perhaps that is the problem. Steepling his fingers Sherlock studies John – not the mystery of John or the possibilities of what John might be, but just John as he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting without a beta again *gasp!* because I can't sit on this chapter any longer. Per usual, once I receive feedback I will update the chapter but until then you get it raw and unvarnished!
> 
> Also just a heads up that next weekend is the Sherlock Seattle Mini-Convention, which means that I will be SUPER busy and unable to update, so Chapter 14 won't be posted until the following weekend. Brace yourselves. ;-)

There are times when John feels so close to Sherlock, when they stand leaning against the wall of the hallway, gasping for breath and laughing after a wild chase, or when Sherlock shares with him the details of a case and John calls him a miracle and Sherlock's eyes glow with pleasure at the praise. And then there are the other times. These times. Times when he sometimes wonders if Sherlock cares about him at all, if he has any meaning or importance beyond being a sounding board for Sherlock's ideas and a sycophant to stroke his ego.

So here he sits, ignoring Sherlock for a change and killing time by reading a book, knowing that he needs to go to bed and yet dreading it. His shoulder aches with sympathetic pain and John rotates it to try to relieve the discomfort, making a mental note to take some paracetamol before he finally goes to bed. If only he had something a little stronger that he could take, but medicating himself against the nightmares would only be the first step down a slippery slope and he knows it.

“They're getting worse.”

John is sitting in his chair, eyes closed, feeling every single one of his years weighing upon him. He doesn't even bother trying to lie. What would be the point? Sherlock would see right through it and, besides, he's too tired to lie.

“Yes.”

The sound of the paper rustling tells John that Sherlock has stopped reading the papers that were in his hands so as to study him more closely. The truth was a surprise then. That's nice. It's nice to know that he can surprise Sherlock on occasion. A few more sounds of shifting paper tells John that Sherlock has taken the time to actually stack them together rather than just dropping them to the floor.

“You're exhausted but you won't go to bed because you know if you go to sleep that you'll dream and you don't want to dream.” He hesitates for a moment, as if not wishing to upset John by asking him the wrong question. “Is it the case? Is the case making them worse?”

“What?” John lifts his head to stare back at Sherlock, blinking at what he would swear was... concern showing in his flatmates face? “No, the case... the case is fine. Frustrating, but fine. The case has nothing to do with it.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Normally I would say that it was post-traumatic stress caused by the guilt you experienced at witnessing your sister's death which you felt, I hasten to say, unreasonably guilty for. If anyone is to blame for her... your... trauma, it would be me. After all, I was the one that dragged you both into the case – you directly and your sister tangentially.”

John head shakes from side to side before he levers himself out of his chair and heads to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet he reaches up to pull out his RAMC mug, fingers tracing over the image there, lips thinning before he puts it down and reaches over for the kettle. He can practically feel Sherlock's eyes dancing over his frame, taking in every minute change of expression. 

“So it's the war. But not the war in general. Something very specific that happened. Something that happened when you were shot.”

John turns the water on with a soft sigh, too weary to even be surprised at Sherlock's perceptiveness. “How can you tell?”

“For one, your shoulder. After each nightmare and before you go to bed I noticed that it gets stiffer than usual – that you are often rotating it or holding your arm more reservedly. Today it seems the worst yet. The muscle is tense and you've already rubbed at it and rotated it twice in the past hour. Of course, I'd already deduced the dreams took place in Afghanistan, but that didn't necessarily mean they were about the war. Your tour of duty could have been a metaphor, merely the stage upon which your dream situated itself because it is a place of violence, death and loss. But if it were simply a location, a suitable environment for your nightmare to take place in, you would not have looked at your mug as you just did.”

Turning on the kettle, John has nothing to busy himself with now, no way to distance himself from Sherlock's dissection. So he turns, folding his arms over his chest and leaning the small of his back against the counter. “Right, how did I look at it then?”

“With regret. With what I can only guess is terrible guilt. Which is curious really, because since you moved in you haven't had a single nightmare about the war. These dreams are quite recent and specifically began after your sister's death and resurrection. Which makes the situation singularly intriguing. What could you have possibly done while you were in Afghanistan that you only just now are feeling the effects of and why would the incident involving your sister bring it to light?”

The silence hangs heavy in the air between them. 

“I don't wish to pry...”

John's lips automatically quirk upward in tender amusement of this man he knows and loves so well. “Yes you do.” For the briefest moment, Sherlock looks almost affronted. “That's what you do, Sherlock. You pry.”

Sherlock stands quietly, the smallest of smiles likewise touching his lips before he nods. “Alright, yes I do, but only if you think it might help.”

“Help?”

“To... talk about it. To tell someone. You could tell me John. No matter what you did, you could tell me and I would understand and keep your secret.”

“And what makes you think that it's a secret?”

“Because you haven't told me already. Because you've only just realized it yourself. And because if it is enough to make a man like you so unsure of yourself, so tormented, then it must be something that you cannot bear to share for fear that it would make someone think the lesser of you.”

“A man like me? What sort of man am I then?”

“Brave. Selfless. At times embarrassingly sentimental. Generous. Kind. Caring. Loyal. You, John Watson, are a good man. And believe me, there are very few of them in this world, myself included.”

John opens his mouth to retort, but Sherlock gives him a look and murmurs, “Oh please, you don't think I've heard it before? I know what I am John. I am a great man, but no one would say that I was a 'good' one.”

“I would.”

Sherlock's lips quirk once more as he reminds, “Like I said – embarrassingly sentimental, and perhaps not the best judge of character...”

“Bollocks!”

The kettle starts to whistle which buys John some time to think. Maybe... maybe he can do this. Maybe he can tell Sherlock the truth. Not the whole truth, but a piece of the truth. If the god who made this body will only offer him riddles, and the God he once served will only offer him silence, perhaps Sherlock would be able to offer him answers. He slowly pours the boiling water into his mug, watching the color bloom from the tea bag as he sets it aside to wait for three minutes.

“And you would not?”

Sherlock frowns fractionally and counters, “I would not what?”

“Judge me and think the lesser of me?”

Shaking his head, dark curls dancing over his brow, Sherlock rumbles soberly, “Never.”

“Right then.” John takes a deep breath, placing his hands on the counter behind him and looking up at the ceiling. “A man that I know extremely well died in Afghanistan... and I think... I think I took his soul. I didn't mean to. But I think that somehow... I did.”

His head turns to the side to gauge Sherlock's reaction and what he sees is not heartening. Sherlock's expression is dubious and it is with great embarrassment that John remembers precisely Sherlock's stance on foolish ideas like “souls” and “spirits” and the like. Energy. A soul is nothing more, according to Sherlock. But his flatmate curbs his usual bluntness and lifts a hand to his lips, saying nothing for a long while before crossing the room to run his fingers over the spines of a series of old leather covered tomes.

John wilts, regretting that he exposed his vulnerable belly to Sherlock's clinical detachment. “You don't believe me.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?”

Sherlock turns, a book in the palm of one hand while the other turns pages rapidly. “It doesn't matter if I believe you or not, John. The problem at hand is that _you_ believe it. So if I am to help you, I need to either prove you wrong or prove you right. If I prove you wrong, then the matter is solved. You didn't steal someone's soul, you didn't commit a crime, and you can stop feeling guilty and tormented. On the other hand, if I prove you right...” and by his tone it seems clear that Sherlock finds that possibility in the zero percentile range, “then together we can find a way to undo what has been done, release the soul that you unknowingly have taken, and again you can stop feeling guilty and tormented.”

John picks up his mug and cradles it between his hands thoughtfully. “So let me get this straight... this really... this isn't about me at all is it? This is about you not liking it when I'm upset?”

Sherlock stops his reading to glance up at John and blinks. “Isn't that obvious? You're impossible when you're moping around the house, feeling terrible about the world and yourself. It's no good at all. Why do you think I gave you the case?”

“The case? Wait, Mycroft's case? You _gave_ me the case because I was _moping_?”

“Of course! I mean, I couldn't take it because it was Mycroft's wish that I take it, but I figured you enjoy working on our cases, they distract you. You can't deny that you lost your limp and your tremor once you were running around London with me, risking life and limb. You live for the chase and it's been so bloody quiet since the last one I thought that maybe all you needed was a good case to sink your teeth into. That's all I generally need, though it needs to be a _good_ case, a locked-door murder, nothing less than a seven really, but your standards aren't as high as mine...”

“But I...” John is speechless and strangely touched. Sherlock wasn't ignoring him. Sherlock was completely aware that he was miserable and was trying to make it better. Sherlock... cared.

“Look this is going to take some time, but I'm on it now and I'll prove you didn't steal a soul because how could you steal a soul? It's ludicrous, really. But if that's what you need, then so be it. I could use the challenge – haven't ever looked into a case of soul stealing beyond the usual petty after-death demons wanting souls for power thing, blah, blah, blah, so _obvious_ and _dull_.”

A crooked smile curls the corners of John's mouth as he echoes, “Soul stealing is... obvious and dull?”

“When it involves demons yes, very dull, _very_ obvious.”

It never occurred to John that he might be able to trust Sherlock with his secret, but in this moment he finds himself filled with a sense of hope that he hasn't felt since he first found Sherlock again after losing him. “Right then, so what should I do in the meanwhile?”

“Well, drink your tea first I should think – should be three minutes steeped now and then you probably better get back the Bruce Partington Case, don't you think? You don't want to keep Mycroft waiting, trust me on that one. He never was particularly patient.”

“And you are?”

“When it's necessary, John, when it's necessary and now you really need to shut up, I'm thinking!”  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
Climbing up the stairs to his room, John feels a little lighter of spirit. But the minute he sees his bed he stops, a sense of dread swamping him. Scuffing his hands over his face roughly, John softly confesses to himself, “I can't do this...”

“Wot's wrong, Wingless?”

Lifting his head abruptly, John espies Tup sitting on the corner of his bed and quietly closes the door. “Nothing, it's nothing.”

“Well that's a load of crap if I've ever 'eard one. Wot's the matter, the case got you down?”

“Well, yes, er no, well, that as well. I feel like we're just running around in circles and I'm missing the biggest clue of them all, but I don't know what I should be look for. I just feel like it's staring me in the face.”

“Yeh needs a good night sleep s'all.”

“Exactly, which brings me back to what I can't do...”

“Sleep?”

“Not soundly. Not without the dreams.”

“Yeh mean nightmares. T'aint no one scream from 'dreams' like yeh tends to. All shakin' and sweatin' and wild eyed.”

“Exactly. And I just... I can't. I can't dream this dream any more. You would think by now that it would be done wringing me out. The point's been made, hasn't it? But no, just keeps whipping me like a dead horse.”

“Mebbe that's due to the fact yeh cannae fergive yerself. If yeh could just...”

“What, let it go? Just be alright with the fact that I've stolen Watson's soul?!”

Tuppenance tches and points out, “See, and there is where yer wrong. Aye, yeh 'aven't been told that you _'aren't_ stole a soul, but then again yeh 'aven't been told that you _'ave_ stolen a soul either. Alls yeh've gotten is wimpy-gimpy wiggly-piggly answers sayin' both yes and no and maybe besides. Tis time for yeh to lay this down to rest. Whatever 'appened, wotever you is, you is. It dinnae matter 'ow you came to be or wot yeh be made up of. There's no undoin' it, there's no changin' the past. Yeh's got to make peace wi' it and wi'yerself.”

Smiling grimly at Tup, John replies softly, “Aye, but there's the rub, isn't it? If only I knew how to forgive myself. We angels are all about forgiving others, but we generally never have to know how to forgive ourselves. It's not a situation that arises in Heaven.”

“Well, try, fer my sake if no one elses! I could likewise do with a good night's sleep rather than been up frettin' about you and your lack'o'one.”

Reaching out, John rubs the tip of one finger over Tup's fluffy head, noting, “Alright then, I'll try, for _your_ sake.”

“Oi, watch the 'air!” protests the tiny Fae, whose elongated fingers quickly comb through his top, leaving it more disheveled than John's small affectionate ruffling.

Stripping down to his pants, John climbs into bed and pulls the sheets and blankets up before turning off the light. Staring at the ceiling he whispers to no one in particular, “Please, just for one night, let me sleep dreamless.” But he knew it was a pointless wish. No one was listening to a fallen angel, especially not God.  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
He was sweating like crazy, the sun high above, the sky a brilliant shade of blue that would have been beautiful to see if the sand below his feet wasn't a likewise brilliant and reflecting shade of gold. Eyes squinting against the glare, John sighed, hands upon his hips as he listened to the hubbub of the camp around him. There was the good natured ribbing of the new recruits, just flown in this morning and blissfully unaware of the dangers and difficulties they had yet to face. There were scents wafting from the area of the mess, not all of them inedible it would seem. Lt. Cameron must have bought some of those spices John pointed out to him at the last Afghani market they had been shopping in. Something, anything, to bring some flavor to the food they were supplied with was a Godsend.

Turning about to head toward his tent, John's body went still with shock as he heard the unmistakable scream of an shell flying through the air. He barely had the time to shout, “Incoming!!” before the explosion ripped through the camp. It was like all hell had broken lose, with explosions going off left and right, men running this way and that only to collapse screaming as they were hit with shrapnel or a hail of bullets that seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere. 

Scrabbling to his feet, John zig and zagged his way from jeep to crate to tent, taking any and all cover he could manage till he made it to the medical center. Quickly he grabbed three kits, tossing the straps over his shoulder before dashing back out again. Eyes narrowed as he took in the bodies already lying about, trying to determine from a distance which were beyond his help and which had a chance of surviving. He noticed one soldier weakly trying to drag himself toward shelter and made his way to him without hesitation, catching the man under one arm and dragging him the rest of the way. 

“Hang in there, I've got you!” Reaching over with one hand to clasp the man's shoulder in order to turn him over, John suddenly had a terrible sense of deja vu. 'I'm going to turn him over and it's going to me. I'm going to turn him over and it's going to be me and I'm going to tell myself that I killed myself.' The horror of this very thought couldn't stop him however from gently rolling the soldier over, even as his heart pounded in his chest and his adrenaline was screaming in his veins. Somehow he managed to keep saying, “I've got you, you're going to be alright. I've got you.”

Once the man was flipped John stared at his face and then stared some more.

It was Lt. Erickson. He nearly broke into hysterical laughter before pulling himself together and chiding himself for being so cowardly and stupid. “After this is over, going to go get my head checked,” he blithely told the Lieutenant, shaking his head back and forth. “I'm seriously starting to lose it here.” He quickly tied off the injury, packing it with gauze and giving Erickson a quick shot of morphine to stop the pain and as a result his thrashing.

“Captain Watson! John!”

John's head lifted, not because of his name being called but because of who was calling it.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” His torso twisted from side to side until he spotted Sherlock running toward him, glock in hand, pointing it toward John. A shot caused John to jerk in shock, but a body falling down scant inches away from him had him literally spinning around. It only took a moment to realize what Sherlock had saved him from. The Taliban soldier had been mere feet away, about to shoot him in the back while he struggled to save Erickson's life.

Lifting his head to offer Sherlock his thanks another report of a gun cracks through the air. Sherlock is still running toward him, but a red poppy is blooming from the center of his chest, incongruous with the happy grin upon Sherlock's lips at his brilliant rescue of John. 

Sherlock's face falls as he does his body, both landing in the dirt only a yard from where John remains crouched in horror. Jerking forward, John's blood besmirched hands grab tight handfuls of Sherlock's uniform, dragging him backward with all of his might and fury, the whole time his mouth murmuring one word over and over and over again. No. No no no nononononononononononononononononono!

He turns Sherlock over, red now painting his lips as well as his shirt. Pale silver eyes stare up at John for only a moment, focusing on him as he manages a terrible, heartbreaking smile, only for the smile to slide off of his lips as he eyes slide to the left and lose focus. Completely. Forever.

This is it. This is the end. Nothing else matters. Nothing else in the world matters. He's lost Sherlock. He's lost himself. Without Sherlock he is nothing. There is no point to living, no point to being alive at all. Clutching the man to his chest, John rocks back and forth and sobs.

“John. John!”

His eyes crack open at the sound of Sherlock calling his name and he finds his hands framing the beloved features as they lie slack beneath him. But Sherlock's lips don't move. Sherlock is dead. John starts shaking, fractionally at first and then harder and harder until....

“John, wake up. John, it's just a dream.”

Snapping into awareness, John is dazed at first, eyes blinking against the darkness of his room, his body trembling and being shaken at the same time. He can't see at first, his eyes still filled with the bright, burning sand of his dream, but slowly he focuses in the dim light to realize that Sherlock is seated on his bed, hands gripping his shoulders tightly. Oh. It must have been Sherlock shaking him. Waking him.

And suddenly John is incredibly embarrassed, sitting upright and opening his mouth to say something, to apologize for disturbing Sherlock, but much to his horror nothing escapes but a distressed sob. Clenching down his lips, John pushes back slightly and struggles to regain his composure. Another rush of embarrassment hits him as he reaches up to realize that his eyes and cheeks are wet with tears. Oh, lovely, just lovely. Having your flatmate deduce that you have nightmares is one thing, having him wake you up from one, crying, is something quite different.

“John.” Sherlock's voice is soft, almost hesitant. “Are you alright? You were calling my name.”

Oh, it just gets better and better, doesn't it?

Sherlock's hands reach out and cup John's face, startling John whose gaze lifts to meet Sherlock's. Quicksilver eyes flicker back and forth between John's blue ones, empathetic and caring. “It's okay now, I'm here. It's okay,” he hushes, hands dropping to rub over John's arms, presumably to soothe his still trembling form. “It's alright, it was just a dream, I'm here, you're here, we're both okay...”

Those long tapered fingers reach up to run through John's hair lightly before returning to his cheeks. Sherlock's gaze locks onto John's once more, his eyes shifting down to his lips and then back again before losing focus as he leans in oh so slowly and tenderly, his lips brushing over John's gently once... twice... like a bee testing a flower to see if it has pollen that it likes before settling in for a kiss.

And oh.... oh my that's... nice. John lets out a shuddering breath and leans in slightly, his mouth opening as Sherlock presses in more, still gentle and tender, but now with a frisson of passion entering into the fray and....

Wait a minute. Gentle? Tender? Passionate? 

...Sherlock?

John jerks back out of the kiss and blinks, sputtering, “Sherlock? Sherlock what the _hell_!”

Suddenly he is being shaken again, hands reaching out and grasping onto strong arms as his eyes snap open to find Sherlock staring down into his face quizzically. As soon as John wakes up, Sherlock leans back and then forward again, his expression clinical and bemused. “John, are you alright? You were calling my name.”

Sitting up and pushing himself back from Sherlock, John lifts a hand to stave off any further questions, the opposite hand coming up to grasp his forehead as if that were the only way to keep the contents of it inside of his skull. This is a bit much for John to take in all at once and the sense of deja vu is almost overwhelming.

Sherlock reaches out to him but his hand hovers just short of touching before drawing back, perhaps sensing John's discomfort and confusion. “Sorry,” he offers in a voice more uncertain than John has ever heard from Sherlock before. “I did not mean to disturb you, but the dream you were having seemed like it was more disturbing than me waking you up. If I have misjudged the situation though, I apologize.”

“No, no, it's not you.” Well, technically it _is_ Sherlock, but that isn't his fault. “I just had that dream again, but this time it was different. This time it was you who died and then I woke up, or rather I thought that I had woken up, and you were shaking me and then you were...” and John's voice trails off as a faint blush touches his cheeks as he remembers just exactly what it was that Sherlock was doing and just how good and right it had felt to him at the time.

“I was what?”

“Nevermind.”

Sherlock studies him for a moment before commanding, “Lie back.”

“What? Believe me, Sherlock, as much as I want to go back to sleep, I'm really quite awake now, I assure you. And on top of that the last thing I need is yet another nightmare.”

“Don't be foolish. Although I eschew such mundane things myself, you need to sleep. I can help with that, so why don't you let me?” At John's warning look, Sherlock lifts a hand and counters, “No magic spells, well, none performed on you specifically. Just a general soporific and the right words is all that's needed I suspect. As for your nightmare, you never have more than one dream a night so once you are asleep again you should rest soundly for the rest of the evening.”

Uncertain, but recognizing the truth in his words, John nods once as he hesitantly lies back down. “Ohhhhkay, we can give it a shot. At this point I'm pretty desperate.”

“You should have come to me sooner. There's no need to suffer unnecessarily.”

With a soft huff, John closes his eyes, muttering, “Perhaps I suffer necessarily. Perhaps I deserve to suffer.”

“Then living with me should more than suffice, don't you think?”

Opening his eyes, John looked up into the pale grey gaze of his ward, his flatmate, and his best friend, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Good point.”

“Naturally. Now close your eyes, I'm about to be incredibly profound, but no doubt you'll find it unbelievably boring as most of your sort do.” 

“My sort?”

“Hush, I'm about to begin.”

As John closed his eyes, Sherlock begins talking. Without looking it is hard to know if he is just speaking off the top of his head or reading from his blog, the Science of Deduction, but one thing is true. It is horribly, dreadfully, boring. It is an analysis of perfumes, going into great deal into their composition, source materials, history, and more esoteric pieces of information, such as the interaction with skin and human pheromones, the effects on the opposite sex, the longevity and breakdown of the scent over time, even what the choice of perfume said about the person wearing it. What isn't boring however is Sherlock's voice. It is rich and deep, melodious and elegant as he describes the most boring of details in the most exquisite of tones. But more importantly it is low and resonant, the pace of it patient and lingering. John can literally feel his thoughts slowing down to match the relaxed oration, the words starting to blur and twine about each other into an incomprehensible mix of sound rather than meaning.

Just as John is nearly asleep, Sherlock's voice rises up for the first time in a long time to ask a question.

“Where is it, John?”

Half asleep, John mumbles almost incoherently, “W'ere iz wha?”

“The Prometheus drive. Surely you've found it by now.”

“Nnnn, no we haven' found it yet....”

“Come now,” crooned Sherlock's voice, suddenly incredibly compelling. “You _must_ have found it by now.”

With those words, John abruptly awakens. Why is Sherlock asking him these questions? Why does he suddenly feel compelled to say anything, tell him everything? John's eyes snap open, staring into Sherlock's face, his gut twisting in horror at the idea that Sherlock would deliberately manipulate him like this with magic when suddenly the truth hits him.

Eyes narrow abruptly as John's body grows tense beneath the bedding. “You would know. If you were Sherlock, you would only have to take one look at me to know if I had the drive. You wouldn't have to ask. I wouldn't have to tell you.” Those ocean blue eyes harden to stone as John slowly reaches beneath the pillow beside him, fingers questing for the gun that Anthea had left with him, as he rumbles darkly, “You're not Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late and thank you all for your patience! :D

Those eyes suddenly sparkle a glowing green, not unlike a cat's gaze caught in a gleam of light in the darkness. Sherlock's already strangely exotic and elongated features stretch even farther, the tips of his ears lengthening even as his face narrows into inhumanly elegant lines. Fae! Curse their powers of deception. Concentrating now John realizes after a moment that this is no mere Fae, but one of the Unseelie, the most dangerous Faeries known to mankind. Just as John's fingers touch the cool barrel of the gun the Unseelie draws a silver blade, the motion a blur of reflected streetlights, the tip stopping just beneath John's chin, the point of it barely touching his throat. John goes deadly still. One swallow and just that slightest pressure causes a sharp prick of pain and a warm line of blood to trickle down his stubbled neck. Jesus, that's sharp. John has no doubt that the Elven blade could sever his head from his body as easily as a hot knife could cut through butter. 

The Elven opalescent eyes are amused as the creature chides playfully, “Ah, ah, ah, let's have you draw that out _very _slowly now, shall we?” John doesn't dare to swallow a second time but allows the saliva to pool uncomfortably in his mouth as he slowly, centimeter by centimeter, slides the gun out from beneath his pillow.__

__“Oh, _my_ yes, that would hurt,” murmurs the Unseelie, another blade flicking into view as he uses the tip of the glimmering knife as a means of picking up the gun by its trigger guard, tossing it over his? Her? Staring at the Fae John realizes that the creature before him is more than merely androgynous, but is actually sexless – a shapeshifter to whom gender is likely as fluid as water. A soft clucking brings him out of his reverie as the Fae pinions John with their pale gaze. “Cold iron. No, that simply will _not_ do.”_ _

__The blade is withdrawn, but John doesn't make a move, knowing that if he does that knife is still right there and the Unseelie can move far faster than John in his mere mortal state could possibly hope to match. He must be worth more alive than dead or he would be dead already. So why not play the game? Clearing his throat he rumbles out, “Where is Sherlock?”_ _

__“How touching, concerned for your friend's safety before your own. Fret not, he left this abode a short while before I entered it. Couldn't have you calling out to him for help, now could I?” Sniffing disdainfully, the Fae points out, “He really should consider protecting his ground from my kind, but then I suppose we so rarely sully our hands by crossing over to the human realm.”_ _

__Good. Sherlock is out of harm's way, though John half suspects that he could hold his own fairly well against an unwelcome Unseelie invader, especially one prowling on Sherlock's home turf. But better he be off somewhere else and safe. “Why are you here then? What do you want?”_ _

__Their head tilts to one side, measuring John, as a cat would study a wounded bird. “I should think that would be perfectly obvious, don't you? I want the Prometheus drive.”_ _

__This little assignment of Mycroft's is really beginning to be a thorn in John's side. Just how many people want that damn thing anyway? Did Mycroft put a bloody advert in The Times? Missing: Prometheus Drive. Full of lots of important secrets to demons, werewolves, unseelie and more. Gritting his teeth in irritation John huffs, “Well, I don't have it.”_ _

__“Hmmmm, perhaps. Perhaps not. The truth of your statement remains to be seen.”_ _

__“It doesn't remain to be anything. I. Don't. Have. The. Prometheus. Drive.”_ _

__“Well, let's just say that I plan on making _sure_ that is the truth.”_ _

__“Oh, and just how do you plan on doing that?”_ _

__The knife lifts again, gleaming in the darkness between them, giving off an unearthly glow._ _

__John eyes the sharp edge calmly, even as his stomach starts turning itself into knots, but he speaks bluntly. “You mean to torture me?”_ _

__Smiling at John past the glittering blade, the Unseelie reveals a row of very white, very sharp teeth. “There are two forms of persuasion. Pain... and pleasure.” Twirling the blade so fast it leaves faint trails in the air, they point out, “Pain is, in my opinion.... unreliable. It is far more likely that the victim will say whatever they must simply to stop the torture, even if that is anything but the truth. Pleasure, on the other hand is... addictive.”_ _

__The blunt edge of the blade scrapes down John's sternum in a caress as the Fae leans in and whispers into John's ear, “It's been some time since I've had a mortal plaything in my bed. You are plain by your kind's standards, but you have spirit. I would enjoy subduing and conquering you. I think you would be a challenge, with your gift of Sight. A small one, albeit, but still not as simple as the rest of your kin.”_ _

__Grunting in mild affront to being called plain, John pulls away and in doing so realizes that the Unseelie's form has changed. From gender neutral to gender specific; they have become a she. Her hair is still dark and curling, but it has grown much longer and with that change has come others. Soft, womanly curves now exaggerate her hips and a generous bosom presses tantalizingly into John's chest. Her face has gained a softness, though her cheekbones are still impossibly high and razor sharp. Her eyes open and close in coquettish flutters of her eyelashes and her lips have become full and succulent._ _

__“Do you like this form, John Watson? Apparently the predominate sexuality of the human race is heterosexual. Such a strange thing, only desiring the opposite sex... or even the existence of separate sexes. After all, pleasure is pleasure, what does it matter what form it comes in? What difference does it make?” One hand strokes over John's throat and chest while the other takes a detour downward, pressing against the partial erection there, palming it through the thin fabric of his pants._ _

__John's heart is racing, but honestly he isn't experiencing attraction so much as fear and loathing mixed with high levels of adrenaline, which is resulting in a reaction to the Unseelie that he would much rather not have. She is lovely, and the Glamour gathering about her is beginning to play havoc with John's nervous system and sense of reality. Still, he juts out his jaw and stares defiantly into her eyes, determined not to be moved._ _

__“Or, perhaps you're a member of the other, smaller percentage? After that lovely dream kiss we shared, I'm thinking that perhaps that is the, how do you humans say it, team you play for?” They shift again from she into he. Features become sharper, fuller and chiselled, hair receding like the tide going out till it's a short curling mass. The chest reduces into solid muscle and John can now feel a distinctly male bit of anatomy pressing into his thigh. More than a bit, really._ _

__He swallows awkwardly as his hand is taken and pressed against that hard length, the Unseelie arching against him with a breathy moan that causes John to shiver and struggle to pull free. His heart begins to race as his senses begin to feel entangled and confused by the dramatically handsome man pressing against him, capturing his gaze._ _

__“Mmmmm, yes I think you prefer this configuration. Or, perhaps you have one form in particular that pleases you?” Shifting again, they become Sherlock and John gasps as those cupid bow lips dip to his, one hand catching the nape of his neck to hold him still for the demanding kiss being pressed against him. The Unseelie's power surges, their Glamour demanding that John find them irresistible._ _

__He would feel guilty if he could, but he knows that there is little hope in being able to withstand such a seductive creature of the Fae, one born to manipulate and seduce. Especially when they draw upon John's greatest weakness – Sherlock. Their voice has changed; it is Sherlock's rumbling words that pour into his ear as those lips brush over the shell of it. “John. Yes, John, finally. You don't have to hide any more. You don't have to pretend. I know that you love me. I know that you want me, and I want you too.”_ _

__John whimpers, his hands fisting on Sherlock's shoulders, arms trembling as they struggle between pushing him away and pulling him closer. He feels dizzy, disoriented. How long as it been since he's taken a breath? He breaks from the kiss with a gasp, but the fresh oxygen doesn't clear his mind. Shaking his head, he whispers more to convince himself, “No, you're not Sherlock.”_ _

__“Ahhhh, but I could be him. For you. Just for you, John. You know that you love him.” Elegant fingers draw down the side of John's jaw, tilting ocean blue eyes up to meet kaleidoscopic ones. Sherlock's expression is loving, understanding as he murmurs gently, “You've always loved him, haven't you? But he doesn't have a heart. He doesn't care about you. Not like I do. He doesn't want you. But I do. I can be your Sherlock, better than the original. With me you can have all of him. I'll be him for you John, everything you could ever want and more.”_ _

__Denial, refusal, lingers on the tip of his tongue, but John can't quite bring himself to say the words and push the Fae away. The glamour surrounding the Unseelie is potent and despite the fact that his heart knows it's not Sherlock in his arms, his mind is befuddled and yearning. Everything about the being before him sings to his soul, _this is Sherlock_. _ _

__The magic seeps into his brain, muddling his thoughts, intensifying his emotions. He sighs softly as his hands shift, pulling Sherlock closer. The sense of rightness is so poignant. He's been so alone. So lonely. Being Sherlock's flatmate and friend just isn't enough. He doesn't know when his need for his ward became so deep. Perhaps it's always been this deep, but as John has changed and become more human, so has his love for Sherlock._ _

__Agape - the unconditional love that only an angel or a God could feel for a mortal being - it was only natural that it would extend into Storge - the kind of love that family members feel toward each other. John had chosen Sherlock to be his home and his family. Despite all of Sherlock's flaws and foibles, or perhaps because of them, John found himself inextricably tied to him through the bonds of friendship - Philia. And now, it would seem the arrow of Eros - passion and intense emotions - has struck him. Were these feelings new? When did this all change? Or perhaps he is mistaken. Perhaps these feelings had been there all the time, a new form for Agape to become? He's so wrapped up in the feeling of Sherlock in his arms, the racing of his mind as he explores these thoughts and emotions that the sudden epiphany catches John off-guard with an abruptness that stuns him. Though he was created, a creature without a soul..._ _

__Sherlock is his soulmate._ _

__The truth of the realization takes his breath away and gives him strength at the same time. The haze of confusion, the deception of the glamour are wiped away, leaving the truth clear to see. This being, this deceiver, is not Sherlock. Could never be Sherlock. Even if Sherlock never wanted to see John again, he would remain his soulmate and no shadowy illusion or creature of pleasure and deceit could fool him with sex and passion that is so wholly disparate from the very person that John is bound to for life. For eternity._ _

__With rage and righteous indignation John jerks back and his right hand surges forward in a sharp and brutal punch to their face, the sound of cartilage breaking audible. Sherlock's perfect aquiline nose crumples to one side as blood spurts out across unearthly pale flesh and the sheets of John's bed._ _

__For a moment all that can be heard is the panting of John's breath in the stillness of the room. The lingering tension is then shattered as the Unseelie snarls and brandishes the knife again, pressing it against John's throat._ _

__“How DARE you! You will pay for this with your _life_!”_ _

__A soft but distinctive click, the sound of a safety on a gun being released, interrupts both human and Fae. “I don't think so.”_ _

__Both predator and prey turn to stare in astonishment as Anthea stands in the doorway of the room, her hand firmly holding the gun that was so carelessly tossed aside, pointing it at the Unseelie. “Get off the bed slowly, Aerlithorn, or I'll shoot you through the head right here and now.”_ _

__If the look on the Unseelie's face was furious before it is disgusted now. Turning back to John, they glare at him as if he were to blame for everything, eyes dropping to the knife before hissing, “I can kill you even if she shoots me. It wouldn't take more than a push to spill your blood and sever your spine. I die, you die.”_ _

__John lets out a soft, ironic bark of a laugh noting, “Yeah, well, guess we're both going to die then because honestly, Anthea couldn't care less about my life or any human life. All that matters to her is her job. Humans are something she just barely tolerates, and that's only because tolerating them is a requirement of her position.” John deliberately doesn't point out the fact that in this particular instance her job is to make sure that John stays alive. That would rather defeat the purpose._ _

__“That is true,” she confirms, her voice cool and emotionless, without confirming which part of John's declaration is, in fact, the truth. “I'm not here to kill you, Aerlithorn, but I will if you force the matter.”_ _

__The Unseelie says nothing in return, their gaze upon the blade in their hand, the muscles in their arm trembling with strength and restraint. John waits to see if he's going to live or die. Aerlithorn seems undecided one way or the other, anger getting the better of him, but wisdom holds his hand until cooler thoughts can prevail. The moment is tense for a long while before the Unseelie before him heaves a sigh of great annoyance and shifts away from John, their features returning once more to their genderless ambiguity as they start to sheath their blade._ _

__“No,” Anthea warns with steel in her voice. “Put it on the floor.”_ _

__Aerlithorn has yet to address Anthea directly, but instead wipes at the blood on their face with the back of one pale hand, growling at John, “Tell that piece of refuse that I would sooner die than yield my weapons to the likes of her.”_ _

__Frowning, John says nothing, sensing that he'll get no explanation for how Anthea came to be here or why Aerlithorn seems to have such a vivid disgust for her. Anthea responds, taking him out of the conversation._ _

__“This piece of refuse doesn't want your shiny toys or any other part of you. That's why the floor gets them. So either drop them or I'll drop you.”_ _

__Aerlithorn sheathes the blade in an act of defiance... and pays for that act. A shot rings out and with an anguished cry, they fall to the ground, clutching one bleeding thigh. The Unseelie cries out, “You fabricated BITCH, how DARE you! I'll see you torn to shreds! Your life is forfeit, as it should have been at your creation, you abomination!”_ _

__Crossing over to the other Fae, Anthea expertly disarms them, murmuring, “Yes, yes, file a report when you get back and send out an assassin. You already know how effective that will be.”_ _

__John is at a loss here, watching Aerlithorn on the floor bleeding profusely and feeling rather like a third wheel when he used to be the starring role. “Should I be getting some bandages or something?” He's not really all that keen on patching up a creature that was going to seduce him, entrap him, and most likely drain him dry or offer him up for the tithe. But then again he isn't sure who this person is and how much trouble they'll be in if they die. Besides, they're going to ruin the floor at this rate._ _

__Anthea smirks a little cruelly. “Aerlithorn will be fine. Just weak. It went through and through, so while it hurts like hell, it isn't fatal. Just a little poisoning is all.”_ _

__Glaring at both of them, the Unseelie hisses, “If you'll throw me something I'll take care of it myself. I do believe I've had more of enough of both of you touching me for a Fae's lifetime!”_ _

__“Always did have a temper. Never understood how you were chosen for the Court. Surely the Winter Queen knew you would be a loose cannon.”_ _

__“Loyalty,” Aerlithorn growls at John, rather than Anthea, as they take the gauze pulled from a medical kit that John keeps under the bed and start wrapping it around their thigh in an effort to staunch the blood. “Something that piece of garbage wouldn't know anything about.”_ _

__“I have plenty of loyalty,” Anthea replies, the gun utterly steady in her hands. “I just chose a better cause to be loyal _to_. One that is loyal to me in turn. Now get up.” _ _

__Awkwardly the Unseelie regains their feet. John takes a moment to pull on a pair of pajama bottoms before following as Anthea escorts Aerlithorn down the stairs and into the living room._ _

__“Sit.”_ _

__Although he looks loath to obey any command from her, the Aerlithorn does as their told for once, rather than risk the wrath of another bullet. They eye the gun in her hand warily, shaking their head before muttering under their breath, “Freak of nature. What are you now that you can hold cold iron?”_ _

__“Better than you,” is her dry reply._ _

__Glancing uncertainly between the two of them, John decides to take a look into Sherlock's room, just to be sure. In his heart he knows that he's fine. If he were otherwise John would be sporting wings and a massive glowing sword right about now. But there's a wide gap between dying and fine that can be filled with all sorts of nastiness. The Fae said he left, and Fae cannot lie, but until he sees for himself he won't be able to rest easy._ _

__John peeks into Sherlock's room to find his bed still made and, stepping back into the living room, he can see that his flatmate's coat and favourite scarf are likewise missing. God, what could he be up to at this hour of the night? Crossing his arms over his chest, John presses his back to the wall and shifts his attention to the conversation occurring between the two Fae._ _

__“So you broke the treaty.”_ _

__“I did no such thing.”_ _

__One expressive eyebrow on Anthea's lovely face rises up dubiously. “Then explain to me how a high ranking member of the Winter Court, namely yourself, is here, attacking a human? The Treaty you signed with Mycroft Holmes expressly forbids interference.”_ _

__“I am no longer a member of the Winter Court.”_ _

__“You were released from service?”_ _

__“I officially removed myself from the Court.”_ _

__“And were you asked in turn to come here in search of, what exactly?”_ _

__“I had heard that there were plans to annex the Unseelie realms on a Prometheus Drive. As a devoted subject of the Winter Court I felt it was my duty to find said drive and deliver its contents to my Queen.”_ _

__“And were you instructed to do so by your Queen or anyone else of the court?”_ _

__Aerlithorn's smile is far too slick as he purrs, “Of course not. That would be in violation of the Treaty.”_ _

__“Hmmm. Yes, yes it would. Very well, Aerlithorn, you may return to Faerie, but be forewarned that your actions will be taken as a sign of betrayal until the Winter Court has proven your claims to be true. You might have decided to take this action on your own terms, but you may have doomed your people to war with the human race.”_ _

__Sneering, Aerlithorn limps a few steps away and draws a figure in the air, which shimmers and splits apart with a soft hiss, the edges of reality blurring and fluttering against each other. “I personally would have it no other way, but my Queen does not and though I no longer serve her directly, I would never actively put my will above hers. My words are true. I acted alone. But be warned. If these rumours are true, you will have more to contend with than just the righteous acts of one Unseelie warrior.”_ _

__John receives only the most cursory of glares as Aerlithorn warns, “Wander not into Faerie, human, for I will remember you and what you have done this day.” They step into the shivering slit in the middle of the living room and, like a piece of paper sliding into a file, disappear from sight. The air silently knits itself whole once again, the portal leaving no trace of its presence._ _

__Once Aerlithorn is gone, Anthea quickly sets the safety and hands the weapon back to John, before striding into the kitchen and turning on the tap._ _

__John listens to the sound of water running for a few moments as he stands there, staring at the weapon in his hands bemusedly before putting it down on the table and entering into the kitchen. Anthea's back is to him as she stands before the sink motionless, her head dipped downward._ _

__“You were holding a gun,” he points out, stating the obvious, his voice mystified._ _

__An annoyed huff of air escapes Anthea's lips. “Yes. And?”_ _

__Clearing his throat awkwardly, John murmurs, “It's just... I thought Faeries couldn't touch anything made of iron”_ _

__“Grow up in the human world and you gain something of a resistance to the poisons of it,” she mutters darkly as she reaches to turn off the tap. “That, and the fact that Mycroft realized that I couldn't be shying away from every piece of metal to come my way, so he took steps to ensure my safety.”_ _

__“Steps,” John echoes sceptically, not really caring for the sound of that at all. Mycroft, like Sherlock, did have his own interest in science. Biology, to be specific. He had done some rather... questionable science projects when he was much younger. “What sort of steps?”_ _

__She doesn't reply, her head tilted down again. Apparently the topic is not one that is up for discussion, so John tries a different one._ _

__“Does it hurt? To hold iron?”_ _

__Turning about, Anthea stares at John coldly and replies, “Like hellfire itself, Dr. Watson.” She presents her hands to him, palms up. Anywhere flesh touched metal is a violent shade of blistered red._ _

__“Bloody hell! Why didn't you say anything?” Rushing toward her, John gently shifts Anthea to one side so he can crouch down and pull out the medical kit that he keeps under the sink. With Sherlock often using their kitchen as a science lab, John has found it useful over the past few months to keep a kit here rather than in the bathroom._ _

__Anthea watches him with a faint mix of bemusement coloured by humour as he fusses over her, escorting her back into the living room and sitting her down on the couch before sitting next to her and taking one of her hands in his._ _

__“There's really no need. They'll heal in time.”_ _

__“Right. Fine. And in the meanwhile I'll just let you suffer and possibly get an infection, shall I? No, don't remind me. You're not human. Got it, read the pamphlet, took the course. Nevertheless, I'm going to treat your hands. At the very least they'll hurt less and at best they'll heal faster.”_ _

__She sighs again, the sort of indulgent sound a busy mother makes when her child insists on doing something time consuming and unnecessary for her._ _

__He treats her injuries as gently as possible, spreading the soothing antiseptic across her fingers and palms noting, “This should take away the heat and the sting.” His head is lowered, eyes intent upon his work, but John can't help feeling both awkward and uncertain. “You came for me.” He glances up at her face._ _

__Anthea's eyes flutter up from their mutual study of her injuries, one brow lifting to indicate without words, 'your point?'_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Because it's my job. And, as you pointed out to Aerlithorn, I am very committed to my work and right now you are my top priority.”_ _

__One hand is released, soft gauze wrapped around it and taped off. The work is smooth and flawless, the bandages protecting the injuries but not preventing freedom of movement. Without a moment of delay, Anthea pulls out her device and starts awkwardly typing on it with the tips of her uninjured fingers. John sighs and patiently takes her left hand, though the burns on this one are far less than the injuries on her right._ _

__“Why do you do it? Why do you work for Mycroft, do whatever it is that he tells you to? Clearly it can't be the money. Why would Fae need money?”_ _

__“You wouldn't understand.”_ _

__John lifts his chin and meets Anthea's gaze. “Try me.”_ _

__With a huff of annoyance, she lowers her mobile and announces, “I'm a changeling.”_ _

__“Yes, we've already established that...”_ _

__Her frosty stare cuts him off as she snaps, “Do you wish to hear my answer or not?”_ _

__John, chagrined, simply nods, the single gesture both apology and confirmation._ _

__“I am a changeling, the only of my kind.” John's mouth opens to retort once more, but Anthea's gives him a threatening stare that has him shutting it again. “Do you know what a changeling is?” The question is rhetorical. “Disposable. That is all. We are an unwanted thing created for only one reason – to replace a human child so that a Fae might steal it unsuspected. It is our destiny to die. I was made for one purpose only. To perish. There is only one reason why I am still alive, and his name is Mycroft Holmes.”_ _

__“You asked earlier what 'steps' he took to ensure I could hold a gun. The answer is necessary steps. I don't think you understand, Dr. Watson. I was not meant to survive this world. The only reason that I'm alive is because as I lay dying in a maternity ward, my 'parents' weeping in grief, as the doctors could not explain to them why, Mycroft Holmes recognized me for what I was and took me in. He gave me infusions, blood scrubbers, mixed my DNA with other hardier stocks he had available.” At John's wince she snaps, “No, you still fail to understand. Yes, it hurt. Yes it was difficult. But as a result of his efforts I not only live, I thrive.”_ _

__She looks away while John stares at her silently, comprehension dawning over his features slowly. “You cannot understand the bond that ties me to him. It goes beyond such simple concepts as 'honour' or 'debt'. I owe him my life - every part of my life. Humans and Fae alike look at my kind in horror. But Mycroft Holmes, instead of turning away in disgust, he took me in. He raised me, gave me everything that I needed. Not just life saving treatments either. He clothed me, fed me, arranged for teachers, made it possible for me to live when I should have died. He gave me and taught me... everything.”_ _

__“As I said before, I am the only one of my kind. And as such, I am neither human nor elf. Despite all that I have learned, I will never understand humans. They are...” and with a slight moue of distaste she concludes, “messy. I cannot relate to them and they, in turn, seem to find me off putting.”_ _

__“And the Fae?”_ _

__She snorts and shakes her head, her long brown tresses tumbling over her shoulders with the gesture. “As you have witnessed, to them I am nothing. Less than nothing. I was not born but created. I was garbage, refuse, something designed for a trick. They perceive me as disgusting. An abomination.” Her shoulders shrug, as if she could care less about what her own kind thinks of her, but somehow John finds that hard to believe. If she were made to appear human, then part of her must be human, just as part of him is human. And humans have emotions._ _

__“So... you're the only one of your kind,” John murmurs with comprehension, “all alone with no one like you to explain who you are. No one who can truly understand you.” _Just like me.__ _

__Her gaze cuts as sharply as Sherlock's as she mocks, “Gracious, no wonder he keeps you around, such a quick study and all. Did you not hear me the two previous times I said that? Are you deaf as well as dumb?”_ _

__John bites his tongue to keep from retorting to her harsh words and tries to remind himself that she saved his life. Which, come to think of it, brings him to his second realization and question of the night. “Wait, are you _spying_ on me?”_ _

__Again, Anthea's brows lift without an actual reply coming from her lips. Her eyebrows are shockingly eloquent, as John gets the distinct impression that this time she is asking him, 'what makes you think that?'_ _

__“It's just... how else would you have known that I was in danger?”_ _

__Her fingers continue to dance over the display of the device as she deigns to reply, “You'd have to ask your little friend about that,” her head tilting slightly to the left. Peeking out nervously from behind a cushion, Tup lets out a soft yelp as suddenly Anthea's gaze meets his and scuttles out from underneath before jumping off the edge of the couch and then clambering up the arm of John's chair. “Ah, yeah, that woulda been me,” the tiny Fae offers with a relieved sigh. “So glad you're okay, Wing...” but before he can finish his usual name Tuppence manages to stop himself, correcting awkwardly, “J-john.”_ _

__John can't help but notice the sharp glance from Anthea at the near slip, one brow lifting quizzically this time, but quickly enough her attention is taken up by her device again as she rises to her feet and begins to prowl around the flat, checking for God only knows what. “Once the Unseelie came into the room, I knew there t'weren't nothin' I could do fer yeh, save to get my skinny arse outta there and find yeh some 'elp. I dinnae know where t'find Sherlock and it was much easier to find 'er. Fae can always find Fae. Once she let me explain 'oo I was and that we were friends, well, then she came over right quick enough.” His arms wrap about his legs as Tup rocks back, looking somewhat shamefaced as he apologizes. “I sorry I couldna do anythin' and that it took so long to get 'elp.”_ _

__“Tuppence, you have _nothing_ to apologize for. If it weren't for you and Anthea, I would be enslaved to Aerlithorn by now and God knows what would have happened to me after that.” John can't help but shudder slightly, knowing that he would have on some level been aware of the glamour that had been placed over him, railing and fighting deep down inside of himself and yet forced to become a plaything of that creature who clearly had no boundaries of any sort. What he might have been used for, forced to do, it doesn't merit dwelling on and surely would not have been anything good._ _

__His gaze lifts as he realizes how ungracious he's been and clearing his throat, John murmurs, “Anthea, ahhh, thank you. Again. For saving my life, or at least my freedom. I realize that this job has been nothing but a headache for you and that the last thing you wanted was to be saddled with someone as simple minded and inadequate as me. I'm clearly no Sherlock and I honestly don't know what Mycroft thought I could do. My powers as a Sensitive have been all but useless thus far and all that I seem to have a knack for is getting into trouble and finding myself in need of rescue.”_ _

__To her credit, Anthea doesn't type into her device once John begins his awkward apology and offer of thanks. She listens quietly and attentively, her brow creasing occasionally as if struggling with an unfamiliar emotion or trying to hide her irritation with the whole proceeding, it's not entirely clear which it might be. But in the end she offers, “You are not without value, Dr. Watson. Even though it is not currently being put to use, you have been a positive influence on Sherlock and that counts for a great deal in Mycroft's eyes. You also have managed to, somewhat, hold your own against the forces of evil and you managed to resist Aerlithorn's glamour. That in and of itself shows great fortitude and spiritual strength, for Aerlithorn is a warrior and most succumb to their power and persuasion one way or another.”_ _

__“Ahhh, well, umm, thank you. That's very kind of you to say and no, don't make that face,” John returns with a soft laugh as Anthea's expression shifts to the very same one that Sherlock makes whenever John has done something particularly stupid._ _

__“I don't understand, are you laughing at me?” She looks on the verge of getting possibly angry._ _

__Shaking his head and his hands, John reassures, “No, no not at all. Just marvelling at how similar you and Sherlock are to one another. Have you not noticed it before?”_ _

__Sniffing disparagingly, Anthea pointedly lifts her device and begins typing into it, declaring, “No, not at all,” which simply causes John to dissolve into a fit of giggling between the adrenaline and nerves still fizzling in his bloodstream in the aftermath of the attack and the fact that her very actions and words are nothing more than testament to just how similar she and Sherlock, in fact, are._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> Comments keep me going, so if you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving one! :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, sorry again for being late. Real Life (tm) has been a bit harsh and stressful lately and that makes it hard for me to write, alas. But fear not, I will not leave you in the lurch for long!

Nothing would soothe the roiling rage boiling up within Melmoth, his body swirling about in a viscous and oozing mass save for where the holy water had left gaping holes and scarred lumps in its wake. “Human... stupid, petty, pathetic HUMAN!” John Watson would pay, oh how he would pay for his brazen act. And Sherlock. Sherlock would pay as well for thinking that he could hold and master a demon as old and powerful as Melmoth. Yes, yes, they would both suffer deliciously and how perfect, with bonds of affection between them so new that neither of them likely even realized it yet. But they would and their deaths would be all the sweeter when they realized that they were the reason that the other died. Oh yes, perfection. Perfection, that each would know the demise of the only other person in the world that they cared for. Too sweet, too sacrilegiously delicious.

Seething in his demesne, Melmoth licks his proverbial wounds as well as his real ones, quietly basking in the heat, darkness and silence. He carved out his own territory when the Earth was still fresh and new and demons only dreamed of living upon the surface of the glowing green and blue planet. The pressure and the weight of the earth's mantle presses against him in an oddly comforting way, though others would find its pressures to be too great to comfortably bear. He gathers himself together, coiling and uncoiling, spreading himself thin and then gathering together once more, a pulsating form of flesh and power tending to its needs in the aftermath of a shamefully embarrassing encounter with the human kind.

An idea floats to his mind and after some consideration he decides that it's a good one. Zendithar. He wants something of the human, John Watson; that much was made clear by the demons he keeps blithely sending after the man. It's an excellent opportunity to both get something for himself as well as his Master. He will make a deal with Zendithar, supply them with the human, easy and complacent to catch, and in turn the demon king will owe Melmoth a favour. Favours can be worth their weight in souls in the Underworld and Zendithar has proven himself to be a powerful and worthy adversary. Perhaps it is time to make him an ally. Hmmmmm, yes, he would be a valuable ally to have at their side. That is, of course, until his worth had been used up. Then he would be devoured and assimilated, his souls collected in the ever increasing creation of greater power for his Master.

It is as such, with dreams of vengeance and basking in the comfort of his domain that he feels the call. No, not the petty call of that hapless human, but the call of his _true_ name - the call of his Lord and only Master. Eyes flicker open as he rapidly ascends to the human plane, grinning to himself while at the same time trembling with a mixture of excitement and nerves. What will his Master say when he sees him? When he sees how he was so easily fooled by a human? He shudders to think what his punishment might be as he enters the dark building and floats up the staircase.

A man sits in a chair facing the fireplace, hands steepled before him as nearly pure black eyes study the flickering flames. Much to Melmoth's relief, he does not so much as turn to look at him. Even in Hell there are such things as small miracles.

“Report.”

“Despite his efforts to learn of your true nature, the human known as Sherlock has failed to make any progress.”

“Yes, well, you've been so very helpful to him, haven't you?”

“As commanded, my Lord. He remains blind and helpless.”

“Helpless? So he is less powerful than reported by your peers?”

“Those who have gone down before him were never my peers. They were weak – foolish, greedy, and impatient. I will confess that Sherlock is the most powerful Adept in the world and that his soul will be a great prize, a glittering jewel for your crown and glory, but he is no match for me and nothing more than an insignificant insect to you. You need not concern yourself with him any further.”

One hand draws out to the side, flexing idly, like a cat extending its claws before sheathing them again. “You will take him. You will bring him to me. I want him for my own. His soul is not to get sucked up by some meaningless underling. He will be mine. He must be mine. Do you understand?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

The hand waves dismissively, bidding Melmoth to leave before snapping outward in denial, the high-pitched lilt suddenly burning and violent. “Stop! What of the other? Did you find anything?”

“A powerful Sensitive, my Lord. I would say the most powerful Sensitive in the world, but other than that he is nothing but an ordinary human,” Melmoth replies in a scoffing tone, dismissive of John Watson having any true value. What use is sight if you don't have the power to call up and act upon it?

“Ordinary, hmmm? Really? Interesting. That's interesting, isn't it? That the most powerful Adept and the most powerful Sensitive would end up together? Living in the same flat, eating the same food, sharing the same crime scenes and adventures?”

Melmoth shivers, sensing by the hint of sardonic steel in his Master's voice that he's missed something important. Something crucial. “Yes, my Lord, it is... interesting?” he replies, his voice echoing uncertainly in the dilapidated room.

Surging up from his seat the mere human form suddenly seems as if it is towering over Melmoth, taking up every inch of space in the room, growing massive and all-encompassing as it chokes the very breath out of Melmoth who sinks down onto the floor trembling. “No, it's NOT interesting! This will NOT do. It will not DO!” The very air of the room ripples with his Master's rage and volume, the walls shaking as various items and knickknacks fall off shelves and the mantle place. And then, as if nothing happened, all is eerily quiet and calm again, the diminutive man with dark hair standing before him, fire crackling cheerfully in the background.

His voice is soft; almost a whisper, but the power and the threat behind it are unmistakable. “You will bring them _both_ to me.” The man flexes his jaw and neck in a sinuous gesture before asking, “Do you understand?”

Shivering, Melmoth whispers, “Yes, my Lord. It will be done.”

“Good. That's very good. Dismissed.” And with an almost playful wiggle of his fingers, the man turns back to the fire and takes a seat before it again, studying its depths silently.

Melmoth slithers down the stairs, pouring out of the building as fast as he can, shuddering with fear and uncertainty. He had failed. Somehow he failed a Master who did not tolerate failure of any kind. He has to make up for it. He must redeem himself in his Master's eyes. Plans. There are plans and amends to be made. Hovering on the quiet street he ponders the various options before travelling below once more. His name and position allow him access where many demons would fear to tread and in short order Melmoth finds himself before the gates of Zendithar. It takes time and patience but in the end he receives an audience with the king. The time is well spent, crafting and considering a plan that will appeal to them both. And indeed, upon his proposal, the plan wins Zendithar's acceptance and approval, along with Melmoth's additional conditions. Excellent. 

Though he craves the comfort of his lair, he no longer feels he has earned such a rest. The warehouse is next, a place to wait and contemplate the details of the plan, preparing to make his own call - a summoning of his own, as it were. The rest will be up to Zendithar's minions. But even if they should fail, Melmoth is secure in his ability to claim the human, regardless of if his Fae bodyguard has been secured. It will mean more scars, but that is nothing in the service to his Master.

He's so deeply entrenched in his own thoughts and plots that it takes him by surprise when the door of the warehouse slams open and in a flurry of both coat and scarf, Sherlock rushes in, lighting candles and lanterns to bring light into the darkness. Time is a meaningless structure, but as Melmoth shifts through his memories and studies the darkness beyond the windows he knows it to be somewhere in the middle of the night by human standards. Which brings him to wonder, what would bring the human, Sherlock, out at this hour? He watches the man as he finally turns toward the circle. Raising up his hands and his voice, Sherlock intones gravely, “Melmoth, attend me.” Interesting. What could the Adept want with him at this hour?

He returns to the circle, filling its confines before manifesting himself such that Sherlock can see his wriggling form, his voice forced into obedient tones as he rumbles, “What do you wish of me, Master?” Oh how the word burns on his tongue! At this point even to say it in jest is too much.

Sherlock takes in his damaged form and has the audacity of actually smirking and shaking his head before turning away from the circle. It takes all of Melmoth's restraint not to simply rush out and devour the self-important worm right now, but that is no longer an option for him. He must wait. He must bring Sherlock to his Master. 

“Looking well I see? Got a little burnt today, did you?” Sherlock picks up a box and begins to pack up his equipment calling over his shoulder. “So, it was you that John sprinkled with holy water. Well, I can only say that you got what you deserved, not listening to me and underestimating him so greatly. Serves you right. But now your service to me is done. You have given me nothing that I have asked for. If you are the greatest bearer of knowledge in the demon kingdom, then all of demon kind should cry in shame. But no matter, I am no longer in need of the services of a demon who doesn't even know how to keep his distance when he's told not to get to close.”

Enough. He can't take Sherlock for himself, but that doesn't mean he can't play with him a little? After all, his Master didn't say to deliver him in one piece, now did he? Breaking the circle is nothing to him and rolling closer and closer, Melmoth revels in Sherlock's obliviousness which exists until he whispers in Sherlock's ear, “Is this too close?”

The Adept nearly screams, whirling about and facing the demon with eyes gone wide and white with terror. It's delicious and sniffing deeply of that fear, Melmoth purrs.

 

*****

 

He's free. By all the Gods and Goddesses, Melmoth is free and unfettered by the circle or Sherlock. He knows that his initial reaction gave him away, and there's no taking that back now, but it doesn't mean that the game is over yet. No, only the stakes of the game have changed now that the dice has rolled against him. It takes everything within Sherlock to hold steady and feign a blithe disregard for the true danger that he is in right now. Sherlock will have to put on the performance of his life in order to live. While part of his mind frantically scrambles for a solution to this dire situation, the other part of it does everything within its power to play it cool. He has to admit that even he is impressed when his voice comes out low and calm. “Fascinating. You've broken the circle. How did you manage to do that?”

He doesn't wait for a reply but steps forward. Bracing himself for impact, Sherlock walks _through_ Melmoth's form, the demon too startled by the unexpected and insanely brazen behaviour to do anything. The interior of the demon is thick as molasses and Sherlock has to use all of this strength just to move somewhat normally. He had half expected Melmoth to be boiling hot, but instead he is bitterly cold inside, the monster's insides a freezing void of ice and emptiness that sucks and pulls at Sherlock's nerves and strength, sapping him. He half wonders if his exposed cheeks and nose won't have frostbite by the time he breaks free of the demon's form, more than grateful for the fact that he didn't remove his coat or gloves upon entering the building.

Stepping over to the circle, Sherlock walks the perimeter, managing not to gasp in relief when he finally breaks free of Melmoth's icy interior to the relative warmth of the unheated warehouse. He studies it minutely, looking for flaws that he already knows are not there, mouthing words while his mind chooses and discards solutions with the speed of flicking through a deck of cards. “Hmmmm, the circle is true, no flaws or breaks. Not so much as crack in the concrete.” Lifting his head to the many eyes and mouths of Melmoth, Sherlock cocks his head and asks daringly, “So, how did you do it? How did you manage to break free of my summoning spell?” He sees it now, an ace held up in his mind's eye, a possible solution to his problem. The only question now is whether he can distract the demon long enough to enact it... and if it will work.

Like a cat with a courageous mouse, Melmoth seems content to let his prey stray and challenge him just so long as he doesn't try to make a break for it. “You never held me within your grasp, human. Your mistake was in believing you had my name. But the name you had was only one of many. I choose to use it to allow you to call to me, but it is not my true name and as such you held no power over me.”

“Ah, well, that would do it, wouldn't it?” Sherlock turns, the circle now separating him and Melmoth, though it offers no protection as such. “But then, if you didn't need to be called, why come?”

“Because it amused me, and because my true Master was curious about you, was wondering whether you were worthy of all of the attention you've been getting down-below.” Flowing in place, Melmoth's many mouths grin as he rumbles, “But he'll learn that for himself when I bring you to him.”

“Will you indeed?” The air of tension that has filled the room abruptly shatters as Melmoth rushes Sherlock to make good on his claim. At the same time Sherlock runs toward Melmoth, which causes the demon to draw up short in surprise. That moment of doubt, that moment where Melmoth wonders if he has perhaps underestimated his prey is just enough for Sherlock to place himself solidly within the summoning circle. Sherlock raises his hands and his power, gesturing faster than he ever has before and hoping against hope that this will actually work since he's never tried or tested it.

“Circulum evocare, tueri et invertant!”

There's a roar of fury as Melmoth floods forward like a surging wave to sink and swallow Sherlock, only for his form to break upon the circular shaft of power that rises between them, surrounding Sherlock in a protective barrier. Screaming his rage, claws reach out of the darkness and scrabble against the golden light. With a soft gasp, Sherlock instinctively backs into the center of the circle, shivering in reaction as he watches the demon try with all his might to pierce the shield between them and fail. 

It is a war of will over magic and though the pillar shakes and vibrates beneath the vicious pounding, it does not yield to the demon. Finally, drawing back Melmoth forms a circle around the pillar, another dark burst of laughter breaking free of his multiple mouths as he notes, “There's no escape for you now. You are trapped. Hoisted upon your own petard. Eventually you'll have to give in to me, Sherlock Holmes, or die here, alone.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock settles himself down on the floor, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to hide their trembling and force some warmth back into them. “I don't think so. Once Mycroft realizes that I'm missing he'll come looking for me.” As much as Sherlock detests the idea of being beholden to his brother, he would much rather face the shame of being rescued than be devoured by a demon. Some things go beyond personal pride. The only question now is just how long will it take before Mycroft realizes that Sherlock is missing?

 

*****

 

John woke with a start, his breath catching in his throat as he shot upright, dishevelled and confused for a moment before he realized where he was - 221B, the living room. He must have fallen asleep on the couch waiting for Sherlock to come home last night after his run in with Aerlithorn. Rubbing at his eyes, John shifts upright, feeling a blanket slip to his waist as he squints against the sunlight coming into the room.

“Sherlock?”

“Not 'ome,” comes the cheerful reply from Tuppence who peers out of the kitchen at John asking, “Nightmare?”

Shaking his head, John hums. “Nope, just startled awake is all. Don't know why.” Stretching his arms up, he tries to put all of his fuzzy thoughts in order, sleepiness and confusion still clouding his mind as he tries to wring the sleep out of it. “Mmmmmm, I think this morning requires coffee,” he muses aloud, rising and cracking his back before ambling into the kitchen. “Did you cover me with the blanket then?”

Sitting on the counter, Tup has apparently helped himself this morning to a massive piece of toast, smothered with butter and strawberry jam. Gripping it between his fingers he munches on it contentedly and shakes his head. “Nope. The Lady Anthea did. You dozed off pretty quick once everythin' was quiet again. She stuck around for awhile to make sure everythin' was secure, did some Fae magics to ensure that Aerlithorn wouldn't be able to come back again, then left.”

John has a hard time envisioning Anthea being maternal enough to think to cover him up, a small smile touching his mouth as he tries to picture the image and fails. Coming to the rescue, yes. Tucking him in at night? Not so much. “What do you think of her?”

“Of the Lady Anthea?” Tup wrinkles his long pointed nose for a moment before replying, “I ain't never met a Changlin' before, but then I suppose yer really not supposed teh. I know what I _should_ think of 'er, but I cannae do that.”

“Because?”

“Because she's the Lady _Anthea_. I mean, jest look at 'er! She's magnificent, ain't she? Not pure Fae any more, but still impressive and tough as nails. She could give any Fae that crossed her path a run for their money and then some. No whimpering Sylvan or flighty fairy that one - more like the Morrigan. A warrior, through and through.”

“Who wears three inch heels and suits,” John points out. 

“Aye, nothin' says yeh cannae be tough and look fabulous at the same time. They suit her, they do, 'uman clothes. If she were to be dressed as a Fae, she would be wantin' armour and swords, no billowin' elven robes or undine dresses of flora and fauna.”

It's rare that John makes himself coffee and while he waits for the pot to brew he wanders back into the living room to take in the changes that have occurred in it overnight. He didn't notice at the time, being more concerned about a dangerous Unseelie in the flat, but now that he looks about he realizes that the room has been transformed into a crime scene, only the crime in question is... his.

The wall has been tacked with various runes and markings, images and notations on creatures and pacts, demons and dark faeries, things that go bump in the night and have a penchant for stealing souls. Books are stacked up and opened to various points and pages indicating that before his nightmare last night, Sherlock has been up late and seriously looking into John's confessed fear of having somehow stolen a soul.

Just a cursory glance tells John that unless one tends to be rather evil and powerful, the stealing of souls is a rare and unusual event, one that is extremely hard to do even when trying. He already knew this as a Guardian Angel, his sole duty being that of protecting and guarding the souls of his charges. So the question of how John could steal a soul without even trying is clearly one that most would find ridiculous in the extreme. Everyone, except Sherlock. Well, John amends after a moment, that's not likely true. Sherlock most likely finds the idea ludicrous as well, but he is taking John's concern seriously. Genuinely. He is building a case, finding evidence to prove to John how difficult and complicated it is to steal a soul intentionally, how only creatures of the most debased and evil natures even contemplate the matter. He's pursuing the matter as if he was taking John to court and had no Scotland Yard to prove his guilt or innocence but instead had to find any and all proof himself in order to defend John against his own belief.

Reaching up, John is startled to find his eyes have begun to brim over with emotion. Wiping at the moisture there he goes back into the kitchen to pour himself a mug, adding a little cream before sipping at it and wandering back into the living room. 

“So... where's Sherlock?”

“Dunno. He never came 'ome last night.”

Blinking John turns to Tup. “Wait, he never came home last night?”

Glancing up from his toast, Tup frowns slightly but nods his head. “That's right. Left shortly before your nightmare. Was muttering to himself about finishing something and putting it to rest for good, then off he went.” Licking his fingers to get off the butter and jam that clung there, Tuppence points out, “That's not all that unusual, is it? Sherlock off and about, dashing this way and that?”

“I suppose not...” John murmurs, his voice trailing off uncertainly. “But it feels wrong somehow. If he was doing all of this,” John gestures about the room, at all the research on display, “why would he leave in the middle of the night?”

“Maybe 'e 'ad to get somethin' that he dinnae 'ave 'ere? Another book? Some ancient scroll or some such?”

“Perhaps. But why in the middle of the night? Why not just wait until morning? Where would be open at that time? And even if he went to some arcane library, why wouldn't he have returned with whatever he left to get?”

“Wingless, you're worryin' over nothin'. 'E probably jest got distracted doin' research, maybe fell asleep at a desk or 'ad to wait for some place t'open up and let 'im in. There could be a million reasons why 'e ain't here.”

“Sure, sure, there are a million perfectly innocent reasons...” So why does John have this sinking feeling in his stomach? Frowning, he reaches out to pick up Sherlock's notebook, scanning through the notes there and smiling to himself as he reads the commentary written in the margins which mostly remark upon how foolish this idea of John's is, the importance, or lack thereof, of souls in general; and how tedious it is that people are continuously obsessing about them. John smirks when he reads, _I can't believe that John - reasonably rational, intelligent John “I shot people and stitched them back up again” Watson is somehow convinced that he has stolen a soul. I will have to ask him for his 'proof' of this belief in order to properly debunk the very idea._

“You're right,” he concurs, pushing the notebook back onto the table. “I'm over reacting. I'm sure he's fine.” Taking a sip of his coffee, John ponders heading downstairs to fetch the paper when Tup comes over to join him, wiping his hands upon his furry body negligently and jumping up onto the living room table. 

“Cor, what a mess!” With no respect for the work, Tuppence treads over the books and open pages, peering at them idly before wandering over and kicking the goggles left there from the night before. “What's this then, glasses for seeing souls?”

Chucking softly, John reaches out and picks up the goggles, turning them this way and that curiously. “Nope, a failed experiment, apparently. Sherlock said they were supposed to let him “see through things”, whatever that means.”

“Wot, like x-ray vision? Like Superman?”

Lowering the goggles, John boggles at Tuppence. “How do _you_ know about Superman?”

“Oi! I can read!” retorts Tup, hands upon his furry hips with a look of affront upon his face. 

John snickers softly, and shakes his head, muttering, “I swear, you're more human than some humans, Tup.” For a laugh, John puts the goggles on and looks around the room. “Anyway, that's what I asked him too. But Sherlock doesn't know who Superman is, can you believe it?”

“That 'uman is more Fae than some Fae,” Tuppence points out in turn before grabbing the front of the lenses and lifting himself up, peering at John through the scrying glass. “So, what do yeh see then? Me skull? The insides of me brain?”

“Here, let me turn them on and I'll tell you.” Tuppence drops down and lets John properly secure the goggles before turning them on and looking at the room, his gaze landing finally on Tup. Nothing looks strange or out of the ordinary. It would appear that Sherlock's experiment was indeed a bust. Getting to his feet to get a better look about the room, John's attention swings back when something bright and shiny catches the corner of his eye. He stops and stares at the mirror on the opposite side of the room, his mouth dropping open before his left hand starts to tense and flex.

“Fucking bastard...”

“Errrr, Wingless? You okay?”

Okay? No, John is far from okay. His whole body has gone tense, first with shock and then with anger, his jaw clenching as he replies, “No Tup. No, I'm not okay.”

Because there, gleaming like a beacon, is the power trapped in John's shoulder, glowing for anyone wearing these goggles to see. The only thing that saved him from being completely exposed to Sherlock is the fact that the power is, in fact, trapped. Since he has felt the magic exploding from his shoulder John can recognize it for what it is, even if he doesn't understand how it works or why. Sherlock must have seen it too, but since it isn't recognizable as anything beyond the scar that mars John's left shoulder, he must have assumed it was a mistake. An experiment gone wrong.

Tearing off the goggles, John throws them to the floor, uncaring when he hears the delicate technology crack and tinkle softly with the sound of broken glass. Turning, he kicks it for good measure, the goggles spinning off and hitting the wall with another soft snapping sound, causing Tup to jerk away in alarm, staring at the goggles and then at John's thunderous expression. 

“Crikey,” squeaks the Fae, plopping himself down on the table as John seats himself once more upon the couch, “What's the bugger done now?”

Pointing at the now broken goggles with a trembling hand, John rasps, “Sherlock... he made those to try to see what I am.”

Tup's mouth drops open in an 'oh' of understanding and chagrin. 

“See? This is why I can't trust Sherlock with the truth. Because with him it's never enough. There's always something more. You know already how little care he takes with his well-being. Can you imagine how uncontrollable he would become if he discovered what I am? What I'm capable of doing? He already doesn't think twice before rushing into danger or leaping toward catastrophe. What if he thought that I would always be there, ready to catch him from an unstoppable fall, there to save him from an impossible risk? And what if he's wrong? What if we're both wrong? What if this is temporary? What if there are limits? What if one day he steps in front of a speeding bullet and nothing happens? No wings? No power? No protection? No, he can never know, Tup. He's like a child sometimes – unable to control himself. A slave to his whims and desires, acting without taking into consideration the dangers that face him.”

John reaches out, his hand hovering over Sherlock's notebook. He only read the pages earlier because Sherlock left the book out and open and they were about John and his 'case' as it were. But John has always respected Sherlock's magical notebook, left his notations and experiments private and unread. This was Sherlock's personal journal and John had no place reading it. Until now, that is.

He starts turning pages, flipping backwards in a fury as Tuppence rises to his feet and approaches carefully, murmuring, “Ahhh, Wingless, are yeh sure yeh want to be doin' this? Wot yeh see now yeh cannae unsee...”

Reaching the pages on the goggles John begins reading, his anger kindling as the notes paint a clear picture of a man with one goal and one goal only – to determine what secrets John might be hiding from him. This seals the matter. It wasn't just a chance thing, a side effect of an experiment taken on for any other purpose. No, this was the determined and deliberate peeling back of John's layers, of trying to expose his truth. It was the proof that at his core Sherlock did not trust John. Did not believe in him. That he lied to him.

 _As you have lied to Sherlock._ Like strings being cut, John feels the anger drain away from him leaving in its wake nothing but a weariness of the soul. Covering his face, John is silent but feels the slight weight of Tup's hand upon his arm, rubbing gently before the Fae gathers up the courage to offer, “I'm sorry.”

“Me too, Tup, me too.” Opening his eyes, John sighs, looking down at the page sadly before he flips back a few more pages and stops, staring at the carefully drawn circle upon the page with a sudden sense of consternation and horror.

Sensing the sudden change in John's demeanour, Tuppence asks uncertainly, “Wot's that?”

John's voice feels disconnected from himself, as if he was hearing someone else speak with his voice from across the room, his own mind taking in what he is seeing with a sense of trepidation that fills his soul with an icy terror that will not abate. “It's a summoning circle.”

“A summoning circle? To summon what?”

“A demon.” He can't help but reach out to touch his left shoulder, but the joint feels the same as always. There is no discernible ache, no flaring pain, nothing to suggest that Sherlock's life is in danger. “Idiot. Stupid, arrogant, brilliant idiot,” John mutters under his breath as he reaches for his phone, typing out a quick message and sending it, then staring at his mobile, willing it to chime back at him.

“Come on. Come on, Sherlock, reply. Let me know you're okay.”

The mobile sits in his hand, silent and still. John curses under his breath before putting it down on the table and turning back to the journal, studying it carefully. There's a brief hope that he'll be able to find something just by looking for clues in the runes and markings, a reference to a specific demon. But the summoning circle is quite standard and general, though it is better designed and stronger than most Adepts would bother using. That in and of itself is something of a clue – whatever demon Sherlock was summoning, it was most likely a very powerful one – one that he wouldn't want to take any chances with. The circle is well drawn though, complete, and Sherlock is smart and careful. Especially after that business with Siwang at the British Museum he is unlikely to make the same mistake twice. Which is when it hits him.

“Paint.”

“Wot?”

“Paint.” John turns to Tup, his left hand gesturing to his right. “The night that we had dinner, I noticed Sherlock had paint on his hand. That's when he made the circle. Jesus, that's what he's been up to this whole time. Calling on a demon, summoning one to what, follow me? Christ, that's it. That's why that demon was at the church. It wasn't after the Prometheus Drive... it was following me, trying to figure out what I am... for _Sherlock_.” If he wasn't so horrified that Sherlock would take such a risk, John would be furious. But all of his anger has been spent and now all he feels is worry and a sick sensation in his gut.

Leaning back into the couch, John purses his lips and stares blindly at the image on the page, working out the details of the past few days of Sherlock's activities. “But the demon must not be able to see what I am any more than anyone else has been able to, otherwise the jig would have been up by now and Sherlock would most likely be gloating... or experimenting on me.”

Reaching for his phone, John speed dials Anthea's number and doesn't even wait for her to greet him but cuts in, “Anthea, do you have any idea where Sherlock might be?”

The line is quiet for a moment before she replies, “And good morning to you as well, Dr. Watson. No, I'm afraid I am not my employer's brother's keeper, as much as I'm sure that Mycroft would love for Sherlock to have such a thing. But we've never been able to successfully keep track of him in the past and now it's more of a desultory effort on our part.”

“Well, if you could step up the effort a little bit, I would appreciate it. He hasn't come home yet and there's...” Does he spill the beans? Sherlock's life could be in danger. But if it was, then John should be feeling the pull of his power and other than feeling sick to his stomach he seems perfectly normal. He doesn't want to unnecessarily alarm Mycroft and despite Sherlock's rash actions he suspects that Mycroft would rather fly off the handle if he found out his younger brother was summoning demons. 

“... there's a case that Lestrade is hounding me about. I can only guess Sherlock isn't answering his texts or his mobile ran out of battery.”

“I see. Well, I'll have the usual check run, see if the CCTV cameras have picked up his movements anywhere since last night.”

“Cheers and much appreciated. How goes the case?”

“Slow and frustrating, Dr. Watson. Slow and frustrating.”

“Yes, well, sorry to hear that. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help?”

“Oh believe me, I will.”

Ringing off, John slumps and stares at nothing before forcing himself to his feet. “Right, Tup, I'm going to need your help.”

The Fae seems grateful for the opportunity to assist his friend, likewise jumping to his feet and offering John a salute. “Yes sir, Wingless, sir! 'Ow can I 'elp you?”

“Put out the word to the supernatural community?” Then, after a heartbeat he adds, “Well, the members of the supernatural community we can trust, hmmm? Just let them know that we're looking for Sherlock and if anyone has seen him, or sensed an unusually powerful Adept lately, to let you know?” After a heartbeat he adds, “Or, if anyone has sensed a powerful demon in the area, that would be good to know too.”

Stroking his non-existent beard, Tuppence nods and replies, “Aye, I can do that. But 'ow will I be able to get in touch with you?”

“Shit. Right. That's a bit of a trick, isn't it? Well, your kind is generally pretty good a nicking stuff, yes?”

Tup sniffs disdainfully. “I'd like to say that I'm offended at the inference, but seein' as 'ow it's true, I cannae.”

“Right. See if you can't get one of your Brownie friends to temporarily nick you a phone? I'll give you my number and you can call or text if you learn anything.”

“Wait, John, wot about the coin?”

“The coin? What coin... oh!” Dashing up the stairs to his room, John reaches out and picks up the silver Roman coin that Sherlock gave him, turning it in his fingers before gripping it firmly in his palm. What did Sherlock say? Hold the coin and think of him? He holds up his hand and thinks of Sherlock and, just in case that isn't enough, he murmurs softly, “Okay, Sherlock, this is me calling you. Remember? You said if I needed you that all I had to do was hold this coin and think of you. That it would summon you no matter where I am and that you'll come and find me. So come on, you annoying git, get your arse home.”

Of course John isn't going to sit around and wait for Sherlock to come in through the front door. No, he said no matter where John was, even if he moved, that Sherlock would know where he was and be able to find him. But on the off chance that for some reason Sherlock is unable to come and find him, well, John will just have to try and find Sherlock first.

Dressing quickly, John makes his way downstairs, pulling on his coat while turning to Tuppence who has, somehow, already gathered a small group of Brownies in their living room and is currently showing them a picture of Sherlock, his head lifting to John as he enters the room. “Good news, Wingless. Twaddle says 'e can get me a phone so just jot down yer number and we're all set. I'm goin' to set up 'eadquarters 'ere and if I 'ears of anything, you 'ears of it.”

Smiling wanly at the Fae, John nods in greeting to the small assembly. “Thank you all for your help. I'll owe you some curry in return, or whatever you like?” From the small cheer that rises up, that seems like a good deal to the assembled Faeries who grin up at John before scurrying off like so many small fuzzy mice. Checking his phone to make sure that it's fully charged, John quickly jots down his number and then nods to Tup. “Right then, I'm off. Going to see if I can hook up with any of Sherlock's homeless network, see if they have any idea where he might be. Got my mobile on me so just call if you hear of anything or if Sherlock comes back home.” He starts to wrap a scarf about his neck then huffs. “Wouldn't that be the kicker? If he just were to stroll in an hour or so from now like nothing had happened?”

“Yeh'd be grateful if 'e did, don't deny it. Annoyed as 'ell, but damn grateful.”

“That I would be, Tup. That I would be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin Translation: Circulum evocare, tueri et invert ant = Circle of summoning, invert and protect
> 
> As always, many thanks to my beta writeaddict and my britpicker aranel_parmadil. You guys are great!
> 
> Comments keep me going, so if you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving one! :D


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo many thank yous to my lovely beta, [writeaddict](http://writeaddict.tumblr.com)! You keep me right! :D
> 
> Also thank you to all of my readers for being so patient. Like for many, 2016 was a very hard year for me with a lot of difficult obstacles to overcome. I am grateful for both your support and for hanging in there with me. :-)

She's a beautiful woman, the kind of woman that people turn their heads to look at when she walks by.

It isn't vanity, it's simply fact and, at times like these, it's an inconvenient fact. Fortunately, she is also Fae, and the Fae have a knack for influencing the minds of others. Most enhance their appearance, increase their attractiveness, drawing mortals to them like flies to honey. But Anthea cares little for humans and what they might think of her. She uses what little talent she has for glamour to disguise herself. She dulls the gleam of her hair, drops a veil of plainness over her features, encourages an impression of invisibility and being just another person in the crowd. Although she hates it, she dons jeans and a sweater, a winter coat with a hood and, worst of all, sneakers. After spending her entire life working for and in the presence of Mycroft Holmes, anything less than tailored dresses and suits are anathema. “Casual” clothing makes her feel shabby and lazy. They feel wrong. There's simply no other word for it.

But today she must be plain. Today she must blend in. Because today she is following one John Watson throughout the city of London to make sure he doesn't accidentally get himself killed by running into something powerful and dangerous. She rarely questions Mycroft's plans, but this is one instance where she suspects that his suspicions are unfounded. When she first met Dr. Watson she thought that a kitten could take him. Later she upgraded that assessment to a large dog. But much to her surprise he has proven himself over the past few days. Compliments do not fall easily from her lips, but she has to admit that she has been grudgingly impressed. With no apparent powers of his own, he managed to hold his own against demons, werewolves and, most surprising of all, an Unseelie of the Winter Queen's court.

Well, mostly held his own. In each case, had she not been there, his life would more than likely have been forfeit. He could not have defeated the demons by himself, and he was a mere hair’s breadth away from getting his throat slit when Anthea had barged in on his little tête-à-tête the night before. So here she is, following him as he wends his way through streets and parks, down into the Underground and back up again. Because if Mycroft is wrong, and Dr. Watson dies as a result of this testing, Sherlock will be seriously put out and any chance of a reconciliation between the brothers will be lost.

At first she is bemused, wondering just what it is exactly that the doctor hopes to accomplish by walking through the streets of London. It's not like he's just going to conveniently bump into Sherlock in this city of 8.539 million people. The odds are astronomical, especially considering that he doesn't even know where to start looking. The biggest surprise, however, is his generosity. At nearly every panhandler and beggar on the street, Dr. Watson pauses to pull out a pound and pass it over. At first she thought it a sign of his kind nature. Of all the humans she has met, Watson has proven himself to be a good one. He is a man who is thoughtful and cares about others. As a rule he does not run around doing good acts, but he did choose to serve Queen and Country. As a doctor he really has to care at least a little to do right by his patients. And anyone who can put up with Sherlock for as long as he has must have the temperament of a saint.

But after a number of blocks and Underground stations, she begins to wonder if Dr. Watson isn't a fool, giving his money away at the rate that he is. This requires further investigation and slowly she picks up her pace. It's important that he doesn't notice her following him, that she blend into the crowd of people and be nothing more than a part of London like the pavement below his feet or the street signs and shop windows that he passes by. Fortunately for her, most Sensitives, even the most powerful, have a hard time sensing the Fae unless they are looking for them. She was impressed when he was able to see her for the first time, but her skill at passing for human was powerful enough that it wasn't until he really Looked that he could see her true nature.

Somehow she doubts that Dr. Watson is Looking right now, merely looking for Sherlock.

Slipping ever closer, she actually passes Dr. Watson and stops at a window just a few yards past where a young homeless girl sits with a cup asking in a thick accent, “Spare change? Spare change.” Sure enough, Dr. Watson stops, reaching into his pocket and dropping in a pound before asking, “Do you know Sherlock? Have you seen him today?”

Ahhhh. Of course. Sherlock's homeless network. He's hoping that one of them will know where Sherlock is. It's something of a long shot though, since there are approximately 7,582 homeless people roaming the streets of London these days. Anthea is fairly certain that Dr. Watson does not have 7,500 pounds to spare. But, if he's careful in his choices, walking the streets and hitting the places that Sherlock's network tend to frequent, he could get lucky.

“Sorry mate, don't know who that is.”

Sadly, not lucky enough.

Nodding his head, Dr. Watson offers the homeless girl well and moves on, passing behind Anthea without so much as a glance in her direction.

It's not often that Anthea feels, well, anything for humans, but she does feel a flicker of regret towards the doctor as he moves on, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched in frustration and worry. It is a difficult thing, caring about Sherlock Holmes, and it's clear that Dr. Watson cares for Sherlock a great deal. Her only experience with such caring comes from Mycroft himself. She's silently studied her employer for years, watching him struggle between balancing his need to keep Sherlock safe and his desire to bring them closer together. Sadly the two problems are more often than not at odds with each other.

Sherlock is wild – unwilling and uninterested in being bound or restricted, and in many ways blithely blind to just how much risk he faces. His powers give him strength, but they also make him a target. She can only guess that at some point Mycroft went too far in his determination to protect Sherlock and in doing so lost his brother. Now he tries his best to protect Sherlock by tracking his movements and activities, thwarted left and right by his brother's determination to be free and unfettered by the bonds of family or responsibility.

Though Mycroft would never admit it, Anthea knows that Sherlock's rejection of his attentions, his concern, are hurtful to him. She's brought him tea as he sat by his brother's bedside, waiting for him to awaken from a drug induced coma. She's watched him berate and tear down officers who failed in their duty to protect Sherlock or follow him. She's seen him sigh and bow his head in defeat when each new surveillance device is uncovered and destroyed. She's seen the look of regret and quiet despair after one of their more scathing exchanges. Sherlock is a valuable asset, but in Sherlock’s mind that is all that he is to Mycroft. The truth, however, is quite another thing.

She never saw what happened between the two brothers to cause such a rift to form between them, and Mycroft is not one to air his private affairs to anyone, not even his closest employee. As such, with her admittedly limited understanding of humans, Anthea is at something of a loss as to how to help her employer. The Fae are not prone to speaking directly either. They are more likely to couch their words in riddles and carefully crafted deceit. They are not outright lies, merely perversions of the truth, relying heavily upon inference and implications. Much like the conversational patterns between her employer and his younger brother, though Sherlock is more likely to speak plainly when he tells Mycroft to bugger off and leave him alone.

She drifts closer to Dr. Watson as he stops by yet another young girl, his face wrinkling in that way humans do when they're struggling to remember something. Dropping a pound into her cup, Dr. Watson asks, “It's Billie, isn't it?” The girl squints up at Dr. Watson suspiciously, asking, “Who wants to know?”

“Sorry, sorry, not trying to be a creeper here. It's just... you know Sherlock Holmes, right? He's my flatmate.”

Her face clears right up at the explanation. “Oh, right, you're Dr. Watson then. Heard a fair bit about you I have.”

“Right, well, that's nice. Listen, not to be abrupt, but you haven't seen Sherlock lately, have you? You don't by any chance know where he might be?”

The girl scrunches up her features. Again, remembering something, only she seems to be struggling hard for this memory. “I haven't seen him today, but I did seem him fairly recently. He had me help him a few days ago to locate a warehouse that was abandoned. Had some sort of big hush hush project he was working on, needed the privacy.”

Dr. Watson's face brightens. “That's fantastic. Where is this warehouse?”

Her features are collapsing, a mix of confusion and panic as she confesses, “I know this sounds daft, because I found the place for him and everything, but I... I can't remember?” Her eyes lift up to Dr. Watson's more than just a little freaked out. “Jesus, I mean, I was there no less than four days ago, but I can't for the life of me remember anything about it.”

The hope drains from Dr. Watson's features, but he puts on a brave face for her benefit, offering in assurance, “I'm sure that it will come to you. Here.” Pulling out one of Sherlock's business cards, Dr. Watson jots something down on the back of it before handing it over to the girl. “This is my number. If you see Sherlock or remember anything about that warehouse, could you give me a call? It's kind of urgent. I'm worried that he might be in some kind of serious trouble.”

Eyeing the card, Billie bites her lip and nods. “You got it. I'll spread the word too, to the others, let them know that he's missing. Jesus, I hope he hasn't gotten over this head this time. I've heard stories about some of the crazy things he's done. Just like him to think he's got it all under control when he really doesn't.”

It's clear that the girl cares for Sherlock, that she knows him more than just a casual acquaintance. She doesn't even ask for any extra money from Dr. Watson, though he passes her another bill regardless. “That would be fantastic, thank you. I've been walking the streets for hours, but you're the first of his network that I've come across.”

“No problem at all,” she offers in return. “Sherlock Holmes is a name that's earned its respect around here. If any of us knows where he is, you'll be sure to hear of it.”

“Appreciate that.” There's a moment of awkwardness, their business done but their mutual concern bonding them together for an odd minute before Dr. Watson bobs his head and offers, “Right, well, I'll be off then. I hope I hear from you... or someone.”

She nods, her brow still creased in consternation, most likely about her faulty memory. Anthea suspects that both she and Dr. Watson have sussed out the girl's problem, and it has nothing to do with early onset Alzheimer. A spell of forgetting most likely, performed by Sherlock to keep his movements secret. Anthea crosses the street and waits for a moment before trailing Dr. Watson once again, pondering the matter. It's not as if putting spells and using his magic on people was something that Sherlock was disinclined to do. Quite the contrary, really. But it still speaks of a level of caution, possibly of paranoia, that he went through the trouble to do so to ensure that he would not be followed or found. Pursing her lips, Anthea pulls out her mobile and sends off a quick text.

Mycroft. Code Orange. Increase surveillance checks to full.

It's not in her nature to worry, but Anthea must confess that she's starting to feel just a tiny bit concerned about her employer's younger brother.

*****

Sherlock is determined to stay awake which is not a particularly difficult goal considering that he is trapped inside a protective circle while a furious and bloodthirsty demon undulates and pulses just outside, waiting for him to make one wrong move that would enable him to surge past his defenses and devour him. Or take him to his master. Sherlock isn't honestly sure which fate is worse.

However there is something to be said for the exhaustion that can build up when one is trapped in a cold warehouse in the middle of winter in the middle of the night, sitting on a cement floor that seems determined to drain away every ounce of warmth his body possesses. Fortunately he had remained bundled up upon entering the building and he had the additional good fortune to have made an unusually large circle for summoning Melmoth, which allows him to briskly walk about when the cold and weariness begins to tax him. So now the two of them wait, both uncomfortable, both irritated, and both stuck here until one or the other decides to make a move.

With a soft sigh, Sherlock realizes that he doesn't have to suffer. He may not have his books and notes readily available to him, but he knows enough spells and magic to make himself comfortable. He doesn't have much power to work with. The barrier that protects him also cuts him off from the free flowing aether that Adepts draw their magic from. But there's enough within the circle to do some simple spells. Kneeling down Sherlock pulls some chalk from his pocket and draws a circle upon the ground, placing in the center the elemental sign for fire before murmuring a spell softly beneath his breath. From the cold ground springs crackling flames that rise up and fill the circle. Wrapping his coat snugly about himself, Sherlock removes his gloves and extends his hands. He wouldn't admit it to anyone else, but the crackling fire and the light bring about a primitive sense of comfort within him. Light to turn away the darkness, fire to heat and sustain him. Small comforts, but right now Sherlock will take whatever comfort he can get.

Right. First things first – what does he have to work with?

Reaching into his pockets Sherlock carefully empties them out and steeples his fingers before him as he studies the contents quietly, deliberating on what they can do for him. It surprises him sometimes, just how much he has on him at any given place and time. The one benefit of his Belstaff is that it has a plethora of pockets. Slender fingers sift through the collection of objects, separating out the useful from the rest.

The cell phone is the most logical and useful of his tools, but also the least likely to work. Magic and technology generally interact poorly and magical barriers tend to block radio waves. Since mobile phones send electronic signals through radio waves to cell towers, the chance that any radio waves will be able to enter or exit the barrier seems highly unlikely. Still, this is the first time that Sherlock's ever had to lock himself within a protective barrier of this sort and he would be a fool not to test this theory. As the saying goes, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Picking it up he tries to text John first. Sure enough, the text fails. When that doesn't work he tries texting Mycroft, hoping that perhaps his brother might have had his flunkies working on a solution that would allow mobile signals to penetrate magical barriers between phones that were magically linked. Although he's fairly certain that his brother has not had the opportunity to tinker with his phone, there's a tiny, stray, if ironic, hope that for once Mycroft has excelled in exceeding his boundaries and has managed to interfere in Sherlock's life for the better.

Alas, the text to Mycroft fails as well. No such luck. Well, when would he have had the chance to get his hands on Sherlock's phone? It practically never leaves his hands, let alone his person. Still, something to consider working on in the future and already the gears in Sherlock's mind are turning, puzzling over the risks and factors involved in making mobile phones that can communicate through magical barriers, boundaries, and borders. The more he thinks on the matter, the more useful such a device would clearly be. Yes, should he survive this encounter, that would definitely be a worthwhile project to pursue between cases.

With a sigh, the phone is put aside to the left as being useless. Apparently nothing gets in and nothing gets out save for oxygen.

The chalk is useful for creating spells but there are limits of what he can do within the protective barrier, his access to the aether particles cut off, reducing his abilities so long as he remains inside. Still, definitely useful both now and later and is thereby placed to his right.

There are a number of coins both regular and enchanted that Sherlock ruminates on for awhile. The metal content might prove useful. The packets of salt are, alas, too small to be of much use and are pushed to the left. Matches equal fire, which would be useful in certain situations but not particularly against demons. More's the pity. On the other hand, Sherlock idly ponders the box of birthday candles and glances back at the matches. Handy in a pinch when casting spells and he'll need to do that in here while he has the time to do so. Candles and matches go to the right. There are several evidence bags and specimen collectors, all too small and empty to be of any use. His magnifying glass and lockpicks have definite potential, as does his multitool. Wallet, money and Lestrade's Scotland Yard ID? Not so much in this instance. Everything piled up to the left is collected and placed back in his less accessible pockets. Everything to the right is brought center again.

Reaching over Sherlock picks up the one thing that he hadn't known was in his pocket and puzzles over it. It looks like, of all things, a sandwich? Unwrapping it Sherlock discovers that the object is, in fact, a sandwich. Roast beef. And a note in John's handwriting that says, “Eat this.” Sherlock can't help but wonder when John tucked this into his coat and feels a soft pang within his chest which he quickly dismisses as useless sentimentalism. Sniffing at the meat uncertainly Sherlock purses his lips, wondering if it is still edible or not. Lifting his gaze to the barrier surrounding him, and the demon beyond it, Sherlock realizes he might not have a choice in the end. The sandwich is carefully wrapped up again and put to the side. The cold of the warehouse is as good as any refrigerator at this point.

With his weapons and tools of choice now laid out before him, Sherlock closes his eyes and enters into his Mind Palace to carefully begin building a new room. However this situation with Melmoth is going to end, there's a good chance that it will end in battle and a warrior knows that when entering a battle he must be prepared. He must have the right armor, the right weapons, and the right strategies in order to secure success. And so Sherlock begins to prepare for battle.

Armor comes first. There will be no time to gather armor together so he must make use of what he already has. The coat, the scarf, the gloves – these will be his main defenses. Each will need to be imbued with power to deflect magical attacks, resistance to heat and cold, the ability to repel any acids or toxic substances. The scarf will need to be able to ward off dangerous fumes and poisons. They all will need to be impervious to the strikes of weapons, claws, and blows.

He travels from room to room in his palace, remembering cases that required just such spells and defenses. Melmoth might think him helpless, here, away from all of his books of knowledge and magic, but this is why Sherlock is the greatest Adept on the planet. Because everything he needs, everything he's looked up before, anything he has used in the past is locked up safe in his mind. With his intellect as the key he can unlock the secrets of every spell, every incantation, and every magical rune or arcane symbol that he has ever drawn. What other Adepts would require hours to research and endless books and sources to discover and recreate he can pull together within the boundaries of his own brain.

Of course, he does need time. Rooms are organized by names, cases, and categories; not by the magical spells and incantations used. Some of them he can recall readily, others have to be painstakingly searched for. But if there's one thing he has right now, it's time.

As each useful piece is found, Sherlock makes a copy of it and places the new object in the room called Melmoth. It is a war room waiting to come to life with a statue of the demon in the center, the focal point of all of Sherlock's efforts.

Once the armour is complete he turns to the next task. Now it is time to gather up every weapon at his disposal so he can draw them out at a moment’s notice should the barrier fail him or Melmoth find a way to dispel it. Magical weapons are the easiest, so long as they can be manifested through words, motions, and small objects. This means no ancient, arcane blades or spears, no holy relics or venerable artifacts. He will create bows and arrows out of aether, sticks, and thread; swords out of slips of paper and pieces of chalk.

There will be precious little time for potions or concoctions save for what is already within the room that can be used in its pure state. If there is a battle, it will likely be a sudden one, with no time to mix and match fluids to create weapons. No, he must use only things that can be used in their purest and essential forms. In this he has some flexibility and time, though again he must search for what he knows he has on hand and what he remembers working with before, forced to disregard options that are made up of solutions and mixes.

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock's brow creases as he is forced to recognize the limitations that his Mind Palace has to offer. He cannot learn how to make a bomb if he has never made one before. Possibilities upon possibilities are considered only to be discarded as being too complicated, too complex, or lacking of the necessary materials. His work rarely brings him into battle, his strength lying in outthinking his opponent, capturing their flag before they even realize he is in their encampment. There are too many weapons that must be discarded and not as many as he would like to have in his arsenal. Which means he must work on his strategy.

This is a little more difficult. Sherlock tends to thwart violence rather than face it. Naturally there have been cases where his timing has been off, where the situation or the culprit escalated matters rather than giving in to the inevitable, but if Sherlock is honest with himself, strategy on the battlefield is not his strongest suit unless he is playing chess or Go. So he does what he knows best: he considers his opponent.

Melmoth has been quick to judge Sherlock as being arrogant and over-confident, but it is clear to him that it is very much the case of the pot calling the kettle black. Assured that he was in control and holding the position of power, Melmoth still underestimated Sherlock and failed to secure him, giving in to gloating and tormenting him rather than simply claiming him when he had the opportunity to do so. There were so many opportunities when Sherlock could have been taken off-guard and subdued, so why now? Why wait until this moment?

Because Melmoth is not in charge. He is serving the needs of another. The question of who is childishly simple. Moriarty. Sherlock is embarrassed that he didn't realize it sooner. Why else would the elder and supposedly most knowledgeable of demons not be able to garner any information about the name Moriarty, unless he was in service to the demon holding that name? Which means that if Melmoth was toying with Sherlock, Moriarty has been toying with him. But to what end? A test of his powers? Of his abilities? Thus far he has shown Melmoth little of his true skill and talents, so testing him was not the plan. Capturing him must not have been the plan either until recently, otherwise Melmoth would have collected him upon first contact and been done with the matter.

So what were they waiting on? What was the change? Could it have been John? Did Melmoth lie about that too? Perhaps it was not Sherlock who was being tested, but John. But again, the question comes back around. Why? Granted, John was able to hold his own against attacks, but more often than not that was due to Anthea's involvement and protection. The weapons and devices that she gave him as well as her own physical aid were the deciding factors. If she had not been there, John would have been seriously injured or possibly even killed.

That realization breaks Sherlock's chain of thought, his eyes opening as a shiver runs through his system. Has he truly been so blind, or was he just so convinced of Anthea's capabilities that he didn't take into consideration the considerable amount of danger that John has had to face over the past few days? Demons, werewolves, and for all he knows others are still in pursuit of John, all because he is searching for the Prometheus drive. Strange. The two of them have faced many perilous foes together, but confident in his own abilities, Sherlock never had any concern for John's safety. After a brief moment of uncertainty, Sherlock shakes the foreboding feeling off. It is not callousness on his part, but a confidence in Anthea's abilities that made him able to disregard the possible danger that John was in. And, to be fair, he did not completely disregard it. He gave John the coin after all, the ability to call on him whenever he needed him.

No, these thoughts and emotions are distractions. Closing his eyes once more, Sherlock returns to processing what he knows about Melmoth and, by extension, Moriarty. Melmoth is ancient and powerful and would only follow a demon worthy of his respect. One would naturally expect a demon with Melmoth's pedigree to be serving at the right hand of Lucifer. Which means that Moriarty must be ancient as well, or at the very least very powerful. But Sherlock is betting on both ancient and powerful. Which makes him wonder then – if he is so ancient and powerful, why is his name not recorded? How has he managed to slip through any and all records of demons? Surely there would have been a period where his power was on the rise, where his name was revered and feared and yet there is nothing. Which is interesting. Very interesting. Even more interesting than when Sherlock first learned of the name Moriarty.

*****

John runs his fingers through his hair and scrubs at his face in frustration. He's spent the entire searching for Sherlock to no avail. He's tried everything that he can think of including Tup's network of Brownies and Lord knows what else, Sherlock's homeless network, even Mycroft's CCTV surveillance. Nothing. It's as if Sherlock was simply absorbed into the streets and buildings of London. So when John finds himself standing next to the Lord of Mercy Cathedral, the light from within shining out into the darkness, beckoning him in, he doesn't even question his actions. There's only one thing that he hasn't tried since he became mortal and he's out of options.

Kneeling down, John places his hands upon the pew before him, shifting his weight from knee to knee as he bows his head before the altar.

_Omniscient. Omnipotent. I never doubted this before. But then I didn’t anything before. I didn’t think of anything beyond my duty. I didn’t feel hot or cold, pleasure of pain, love or hate. Well... technically I haven’t experienced hate yet, but I have been angry - angry enough to use your name in vain. So now I have to wonder - are you what I always believed and praised you to be? If not, am I revealing myself to you now? Will Michael come again to finish the job he failed to before? If so, then I best say my piece now while I still have the chance. <_

_But, if not, if you do know all and see all, then I am meant to be here unless somehow my devotion to Sherlock is somehow akin to the human right of free will. But how does an angel, a fallen angel no less, have something never had before? Free will. A soul._

A soft sigh feathers through John's lips as he lifts his gaze. “But then,” he murmurs softly to himself, “if you know all of that then you also know why I am here.”

Closing his eyes, John prays, something he has never done before because angels have no reason to pray. Celebrate, honor, praise, yes, all of those things and more he has done in the past. But now he is mortal and with this human form come human prayers.

_Please, help me find Sherlock. I'm so worried about him. About where he might be, if he's in danger. For some reason I've been allowed to take care of him, and for that I am grateful beyond words. So forgive me if I'm being selfish, but I just... I need to know that he's alright. I need to know where he is because I know what he's up against and I'm really afraid of what he has done, what else he might do, that nothing else matters to me. I love him, I love like a human now as well as an angel, and I can only assume that this is your doing as well, that you have made me what I am or allowed me to become this. So forgive me this human frailty of love and please, just let me know if he's alright or if he needs my help._

A shuddering breath escapes John and when he opens his eyes he can feel tears on his cheeks, he quickly dashes them away in awkward embarrassment. “I know this is so very 100 AD, but I could really use a sign from you right about now.”

Nothing happens. The church remains quiet and calm save for the soft sounds of creaking pews and hushed footsteps upon the carpeted aisle. John remains seated, patient and praying, waiting and watchful for any sign that might come but in the end he rises like the rest of the penitent that enter through these doors, hoping that his prayers have been heard, but not knowing for sure.

Stepping out into the darkness, John huddles within his coat, his breath clouding before him. But he's not going to stop looking. He'll search all night and day until he finds Sherlock. There is no other option. It's only few blocks away from the church when John feels something. The sensation is a strange one and not like anything he has felt before. It's like a tugging upon his body, his very flesh. It's as if his blood is shifting, drawn by the magnetic pull of something far greater than himself. Stopping in the middle of the block he manages to cause a few people to bump into him, oblivious to their complaints as he focuses on the peculiar experience. Eventually he steps to the side, lifting a hand to his shoulder and rotating it experimentally. There's no pull there, nothing tearing his reality asunder as it forces his flesh to yield forth feathers and a fiery blade. But the pull is unmistakable and growing by the second to the point where John finds his footsteps carrying him forward, one hesitant step after another, each motion becoming more assured and confident until he finds himself running down the block, his body and blood leading the way in a charge that is undeniable.

Well, he asked for a sign. Perhaps this is it? He can't imagine what else it might be and since nothing else has worked today, he might as well go with unexplainable compulsions as much as anything. After a few blocks of running John forces himself to stop, realizing that wherever it is that he's going, he's not going to get there on foot. Waving down a taxi, John climbs into the back.

“Where to, mate?”

“Ahhh, I don't really know.”

The cabbie turns around to stare at John and shaking his head, John doesn't bother trying to explain that he's being drawn by an inexplicable and potentially holy force to reach a specific if unknown destination. That would make him look like a whack job. So instead he replies, “Look, there's a place I'm trying to find, but I don't know the address. I'll just... I know how to get there by landmarks. Just drive and I'll let you know when to turn, alright?”

Apparently the cabbie has heard stranger, because he shrugs his shoulders and turns on the meter, noting, “Righto.” The taxi pulls away from the kerb and closing his eyes John concentrates on the feeling, offering vague directions like, “make the next left” then “go straight” until “damn, ummm make the next right that you can.”

They're reached the outskirts of London and the sensation in John's blood is so strong he feels like he might burst a blood vessel any minute now. So it's with a sense of great relief when they finally reach the point where his blood sings here, here, here! He pays the cabbie and scrambles out the door, not even thinking clearly enough to ask him to wait should Sherlock be on the other side of the warehouse door.

_HERE! HERE! HERE!_

John pushes the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks to everyone who waited so patiently for this and my apologies for taking so long to post. It's been a very difficult six months! I hope you enjoy this chapter and I'll have the next one up in a 1-2 weeks. :-)
> 
> I'm adding a trigger warning to this chapter - there is suicidal imagery (though not ideology) within. Take heed!
> 
> All the thanks to my lovely beta [writeaddict](http://writeaddict.tumblr.com)!

“Sherlock?” The door of the warehouse yawns open into a darkness so complete that even the sunlight shies away, its rays reluctant to penetrate any further. Not a good sign. Taking a breath, John steps inside a few feet, turning around sharply when the door abruptly slams behind him. His eyes struggle to adjust from the brightness without to the black within.

“Sherlock!” John keeps moving forward slowly, his skin is prickling with anxiety and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rise as he sees nothing, hears nothing. He stops moving forward, except for the fact that... he doesn't. Step by step, John's body continues walking, despite his mind commanding it otherwise. He must be several yards into the warehouse when his body seizes and stills. Just as abruptly the lights snap on. It seems he is not completely incapable of autonomous movement, his hands lifting of their own accord, reacting instinctively to the abrupt shift from dark to light. When his eyes finally readjust there are only two things that are visible: a knife on the floor and a tall cage that is just the right height for a human being to stand inside of. His body struggles to obey his commands, but he can't stop himself from bending over to pick up the blade and as he does so a voice calls out to him.

“Where is the Prometheus drive?”

“Oh for fuck's sa– is this REALLY what this is about?” Frustration and anger bubble up, burning away the fear that he was previously experiencing. This game of cat and mouse has worn away his patience. He regrets ever offering to help Mycroft Holmes, who seems more and more to just be playing some sort of cat and mouse game, with John playing the part of the mouse. Exhaustion, more spiritual than physical, floods him. His shoulders slump forward in frustrated resignation as he repeats for what feels like the millionth time, “I don't HAVE it! Nobody has it! In fact, I'm seriously starting to doubt that the damn thing even exists!”

The warehouse door slams open behind John, causing him to startle and the voice calls out again, “Stop!”

Hope and fear leap into John’s throat as he tries to turn around to see who has just entered, but his body resists the command. Is it Sherlock? Depending on what they are up against, this could either be a very good thing or a very bad thing. John finds himself torn. On one hand, it would mean that Sherlock is safe and away from the demon he summoned. On the other hand, by being here John is putting Sherlock into a potentially dangerous situation with an unknown enemy.

“Enter slowly or the human will take his own life.”

Human. So not Sherlock. If it was Sherlock, the being would have called him something else. The use of ‘human’ means that whoever has entered is decidedly _not_ human. Before John can even verbally question the matter further he finds his own hand lifting to bring the blade up to his throat, a helpless puppet whose strings are controlled by an unknown and clearly determined entity.

“Alright, alright, leave him alone, I'm coming in slowly.”

Anthea. John would say 'Thank God,' only he doesn't think God has anything to do with her presence here.

“Drop your weapons.”

There's a moment of silence before John hears the ring of metal upon the floor and then after a moment the voice firmly enunciates, “All of your weapons.”

With a soft gasp, John feels his hand pressing upward, the edge of the blade biting into the skin of his neck.

There's immediately a clatter of other objects, God knows what, but by the sound of it Anthea came in armed to the teeth. Once silence reigns again her voice calls out, terse and harsh. “Alright, alright, stop! Let him be.”

“No. We've seen this before and we will not be fooled by your Faery ways again. Enter the cage.”

John listens as Anthea draws closer and as she comes abreast of John the two share a look. John can't imagine what his expression is right now, but it’s probably something close to panic. Anthea, for her part, looks like she is ready to heap a ton of pain onto someone's head, if she could only get her hands on the disembodied voice.

“Step into the cage,” the voice orders her again and just as John feels his arm tensing once more Anthea steps past the doorway to stand within the cage.

With the knife still at his throat, John feels his body move towards the cage, his gaze filled with regret and apology as he closes the door behind Anthea, the heavy metal closing with the thick click of a lock setting into place.

In an instant John's body is his own again, his arm dropping, fingers releasing the knife which clatters to the floor. His other hand reaches up to his throat, gingerly touching the stinging flesh there. He pulls his fingers away to study the blood on the pads. Not too much. Not that serious of a cut then.

“Where is the Prometheus Drive?” The voice is both emotionless and persistent, as if the being wielding it knows that it will get what it wants and will dole out whatever it must, no matter how long it takes, to get it.

“We don't bloody have it, didn't you hear me the first time?” His voice comes out sharp and angry and suddenly John feels the compulsion take him over again, his body bending over to pick up the knife, a thin line of crimson blood now decorating its edge. Shit. Now is not the time to lose your cool, John. He feels himself moving, stepping closer to the cage where Anthea prowls like a trapped wild panther, her hands reaching out to the bars before flexing and withdrawing. Iron, he realizes. It's one thing to hold a gun where iron is merely a small part of its properties. It's something else entirely to be faced with bars of pure, cold iron and in that moment John remembers that iron isn't merely painful but also deadly to Fae. In sufficient quantities it's know to also block their ability to use magic. He doesn't need to guess how much iron it takes to stop a Faery – he's looking at it.

Stopping in front of her John feels his body moving against his will, pulling off his coat and dropping it to the floor before rolling up his sweater and shirt sleeves, exposing his left arm before the blade comes back into play. The sharp tip comes to rest against his wrist with the rest of the blade poised above the length of his forearm. Oh. Oh shit. John's been an angel long enough, seen enough successful suicides, to know what this means.

There isn't even a soft sigh of mild irritation or impatience, just five simple words spoken in a tone bordering on boredom. “Where is the Prometheus Drive?”

This time John doesn't bother to answer. He knows that he isn't the one being asked the question. His gaze lifts to Anthea's dark regard, her hands hovering before the bars in front of her, her mouth a straight and silent line.

“If you do not give us the Prometheus Drive, Dr. Watson will kill himself slowly and you will watch him as he dies.”

The blade quivers above his flesh and John shivers. He cannot bring himself to meet Anthea's stare any longer, his eyes now fixated on the point where metal and skin are touching. All he can wonder now is how deep will he cut? How long?

For a few minutes there is nothing but silence. Within his peripheral vision he can see Anthea's hands flex and curl into tight fists.

He watches as his own hand moves. Bracing himself for the pain that is to come, John closes his eyes and then gasps. Damn! It hurts more than expected. His teeth clench on a hiss of pain as he opens his eyes in time to see a line of scarlet drawing up from his wrist to his elbow, blood spilling over the edges and down the sides of his arm to patter against the floor like raindrops. The answer? Not too deep but long enough. Given time, he will most certainly bleed out, but it will be a long and slow death.

John falls to the floor as his legs give way unexpectedly and can do little else but stare at his bleeding arm and watch, horrified, as he rolls up his sweater and the other shirtsleeve, the blade switching hands. Jesus. He can't watch this. He can't watch as he kills himself. So many ways he expected to go, so many ways he would have been proud to have laid his life on the line and lost it. But to die like this, for nothing, for no one, without so much as a struggle? What a shameful and pointless way to die.

“Stop. Stop!” Anthea yells from her cage and opening his eyes John stares up at her, blinking in surprise, his left hand hovering over his right arm now, the surface of his skin painted in bloody streaks and drips.

“I have it. I have the Prometheus drive just... just stop. Leave him alone.”

“Where?” The voice is perfectly perfunctory, not even a hint of victory or malice contained within.

Reaching into her pocket Anthea pulls out a small box which she places on the floor slowly. From around her neck she draws a necklace with a key. Inserting the key into the box, she opens it and in reaction John cannot help but gasp.

She said that when he was near it he would know, but John had no idea just how powerful the emanations from the fully engaged Prometheus drive would be. He would reel back if it weren't for the fact that his body was not currently his own. As it is, his eyes narrow in reaction, as if it were too bright to look upon directly.

“Bring it to me.”

John feels himself slowing putting the blade down before reaching between the bars to pick up the egg-shaped object. Wobbling, he rises to his feet before turning around. It is then that his tormentor makes itself known. A small demon in the form of a harpy swoops down from above, landing on the ground and strutting over to him. He stares at the cold eyes that peer at him from beneath scraggly hair, a human hand reaching out, palm up to accept the device. John's feet bring him ever closer to the demon, the soft pat-pat of his blood hitting the cement floor strangely loud in the silence that surrounds them. Bending over, John places the object in the creature's hand. It considers the object with slow blinking eyes that show no emotion, before looking up into John's face.

“Is this the Prometheus Drive?”

John has no reason to lie, but as his mouth opens he realizes that he is compelled to tell the truth. “Yes. Yes, that is the Prometheus Drive.”

“Then your life is spared,” is the cool reply. John stares at the creature in astonishment as it opens up its broad wings and takes flight with the object. With a loud pop, a swirling whirlpool opens up in midair, its maw tugging at the light around them, as if desiring to devour it. Without a blink, the demon flies up and enters the tunnel, disappearing within its depths. With another percussive crack, the portal seals shut just as suddenly as it opened.

“John. John, hurry up and get me out of here.”

He should be angry. He should be furious. But instead John just feels hollowed out. Perhaps it is the blood loss, or perhaps it is just the pointlessness of everything that he's been through, but for some reason he can't summon the energy to be outraged that Anthea nearly let him kill himself. And for what? If she found the device, why hadn't she delivered it to Mycroft? Why did she have it on her? Why didn't she tell him she had found it? And if it was as valuable and as important as Mycroft suggested it was, why would she give it up just to save John's life? He knew in the scheme of things he wasn't important enough to Mycroft to justify risking a major magical security breach, and Anthea certainly would never go against her employer out of something as human and weak as sentiment.

Just what the hell was going on?

He shakes the door uselessly before he realizes, “I can't. There’s no visible latch or lock. Not that we have a key for one either way. We'll have to wait until someone can cut you out of there.” Glancing down at his arm, the doctor within John points out, “I need to stop this bleeding or I'm going to pass out.” 

He gets to work methodically, removing his sweater and shirt before taking the knife and cutting his shirt into strips. “Look, I'm going to need your help here,” John mutters gruffly, passing Anthea the lengths of cotton. “I'll hold the edges of the wound together. You need to bandage my arm up as tightly as you possibly can, got it?”

“Got it.”

He has to hand it to her, she does the work without so much as flinching, even as it brings her face so close to the iron bars that her hair occasionally sizzles and shrivels as it brushes against them. Her hands are steady as she reaches through the bars at great risk to herself, oblivious to the blood slicking John's flesh as she wraps his arm tightly and securely, adding layer upon layer until the wound is firmly bound.

Both human and Fae sigh with what seems like relief before Anthea extends her palm. “Give me your mobile and I'll get us out of here.”

John passes her the phone. “What happened to yours?”

“It said to drop all of my weapons.”

Despite all that they've been through, John feels a weak smile come to his lips as he counters, “Your mobile is a weapon?”

Anthea's lips curl into a corresponding smile that bears a striking resemblance to a shark; all teeth and no mercy. “Dr. Watson, I would have thought by now that you would have realized that my mobile is the most deadly weapon that I carry.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Leaning his back against the bars of the cage, John closes his eyes and cradles his right arm, listening as Anthea makes some very specific calls, saying nothing that means anything to him, all codes and ciphers. Nothing to do now but rest and wait for the cavalry to arrive.

While he waits, John quietly wonders to himself how the harpy demon was able to control him the way that it did. None of the other demons they encountered had that power, and it never occurred to him that they would. Manipulate humans? Sure. Kill humans? Without question. But control a human's body– that is not something that he's ever heard about in the millennia that he's been alive, save for cases of possession. And what he experienced definitely was not possession. But he keeps his thoughts to himself. Wouldn't do to reveal more than necessary where others can hear. That might prove to be too telling. Best he figure that answer out on his own, lest some other demon try to use him against Sherlock. Fabulous. Yet another unanswered question to add to his ever growing list.

Which reminds him of the most burning question of all – where is Sherlock?

  


*****

  
Returning from his Mind Palace, Sherlock lifts his head up to stare into the light that is beaming in through the windows, his gaze narrowing against the brightness. It's already late afternoon. His stomach rumbles in hunger but Sherlock pays it no mind, his attention shifting to where he is still under siege, the massive form of Melmoth pressed bodily against the magical shield that protects Sherlock, though he has ceased his efforts to breach the defenses.

One eye opens and lazily focuses on Sherlock as the demon intones, “You're back. Where did you go, puny human?”

Sherlock's lips curl into a self-satisfied smile as he coyly asks, “Miss me?”

Melmoth snorts. “Hardly.” Multiple eyes roll and it's disconcerting to see such a human reaction on such an inhuman form. “I see that no one has come to your rescue yet,” he notes derisively. “But then again, it's no wonder you don't have anyone who would care about you disappearing. The way that you rattle on and on, as if you were the most brilliant and powerful Adept in this world. It's tedious.”

Sherlock snorts in turn, a wry and mocking smile curling his lips as he retorts, “Says the all-mighty demon who is so overconfident in his powers and prowess that he is easily tricked and utterly fails to capture a marginally competent Adept for his,” and here Sherlock’s fingers sardonically use air quotes, “Master.”

The demon growls in irritation, some tentacle-like appendages twitching in annoyance, like an irritated cat's tail. “Do you mock me, mortal?” The words are more a warning than a question.

It is rarely wise to anger a demon, but Sherlock can't help but wink as he asks innocently, “Do I? Perhaps I do.” Stretching upward, he rises to his feet, working the kinks out of his body that have had hours to settle into place while he was in his trance state. The space is actively warm now thanks to his fire spell and as such Sherlock decides it is time to put some of his efforts into effect. He peels off his outer layers and drops them on the floor before stepping back into his Mind Palace for a moment, picking up the enchantment spell that he so carefully crafted there, holding it like a compass in the palm of his left hand whilst his right begins to draw upon the floor, creating a circle and surrounding it with the necessary runes and sigils.

Settling back down with a disgruntled noise, Melmoth hisses as if steam were escaping his body. “It would be unwise of you to anger me further,” he warns. “I have my orders but I wasn't specifically told whether I should deliver you dead or alive. That choice is apparently mine to make.”

“And my soul?”

“Will be taken, of course. That is the only valuable thing about you. Your power, stripped of your arrogance and human shell, will be a prized jewel in the crown of my Lord and Master.”

“Hmmmmm, and Mycroft said I would never amount to anything.”

Placing his outer clothing into the circle, Sherlock gestures, drawing a portion of the aether to him, molding it to his will and then imbuing the circle with power. There's a soft chime that rings through the air, indicating the spell was successful. Now it needs to cook, like a good stew, to allow the fabric to soak in the protective enchantments, penetrating the fibers as deeply as possible. Should have started this sooner, he muses to himself, but an hour should be enough to complete it.

“Tell me,” he asks conversationally, “why would anyone want a soul for anything other than its power?”

It's an innocuous question, one asked merely to pass the time and perhaps offer enlightenment into his research of John's dilemma, but Melmoth reacts as if struck by lightning, jerking back and growling defensively before snarling, “Why do you ask, human?”

Surprised silver eyes lift to the demon before narrowing as Sherlock purses his lips. “Interesting. Let me give you a tip. Never play poker. You have too many faces and too many tells.”

Many teeth inside many mouths are bared in silent reproach, but whatever alarm Sherlock's question set off has dissipated. Which means that the demon thought Sherlock knew something that he doesn't, or perhaps more accurately, shouldn't know. Even more interesting.

As if indulging a small and stupid child, Melmoth deigns to answer the question. “Souls only have one use, and that is their power. I suppose it is possible that a supernatural creature might, for some inexplicable reason, come to covet keeping a soul, like a pet or a collector’s item. But even that is peculiar and rarely heard of. Most would consider such a thing beneath them. I could only imagine that a very unique soul, one quite unlike its brethren, would be worthy of collecting and keeping as a memento of sorts. But some like the idea of possessing the very ownership that they themselves eschew.”

“Ownership?”

“For someone who purports himself to be so brilliant, you really are quite dense. Souls belong to humans, those whom God has created as his children. To have a soul is to be marked as a possession. Something made. Souls are tarnished and tainted things and too much like a leash and collar leading back to the one who created them in the first place. No creature is interested in having a soul for anything other than tithing and power.”

Sherlock smirks as he counters, “Everything is made, even you. You think you can lie to me, but we both know the truth. You are owned just as much as any human. In fact, you are not simply branded as a possession, you are a _slave_. Nothing you have is yours because it all belongs to your master. So really, you are _far_ more puny and pathetic than any human. Unlike you, humans have free will, something you will _never_ know.”

Melmoth's rage literally bubbles out of his flesh, hissing gasses escaping as he rises up and wraps himself around the protective cage encircling Sherlock. And then, like a boa constrictor he begins to squeeze. Sherlock's smug expression disappears quickly as the spell that surrounds him starts to creak and groan. It shouldn't be possible for the demon to crush the magical barrier protecting him, but then again they said that the Titanic was unsinkable, and look how that panned out.

However, both of them are startled as the air above them loudly pops, a funnel of swirling black that seems to suck up all the light within the room opening up like a tiny black hole. A moment later a creature emerges from the depths, wings flapping through the air and hovering there above them, blinking obliquely at Sherlock before dismissing him entirely, its passive gaze turning toward Melmoth.

“The deed is done. The object has been acquired. You have the thanks of my master and have won from him favors to bestow upon your own should you have need for them.” Again the demon turns its gaze to Sherlock, one brow arching slightly before it rises up into the black hole in the ceiling once more, the portal closing again with a loud pop.

Sherlock doesn't understand what has just transpired, but Melmoth is no longer trying to crush his circle, in fact the demon is currently unwinding itself from the barrier. Sherlock should be feeling a sense of relief, but instead all that fills him is a sense of dread, as if the other shoe were about to drop and he hadn't even noticed that he was barefoot.

Undulating to face Sherlock with his primary face, Melmoth's mouth splits into a truly terrifying specter of teeth and gleeful malice.

“Did you honestly think while you were hiding away inside your head that I wasn't plotting and planning as well? Did you think I was just sitting here, patiently waiting for you to find some way to escape?” The laughter that follows chills Sherlock to the bone.

“A slave, am I? A possession you say? Well, you are a fool if you think that is true. I serve my master because I respect him, because I choose to, not because he forces or controls me. So now, while you sit here helpless, I'm going to go to where John Watson is waiting. He's been looking for you all day, did you know that? Amazingly enough, he actually cares for you. How charming. How quaint. I would say that he is probably your only friend in this world, is he not? Though you are not much of a friend to him, are you? Calling upon a demon to spy on him? To reveal whether or not there is anything he has been keeping from you? How small and petty. How dirty and underhanded. He may have been a friend to you, but you have been no friend to him.”

Sherlock rushes forward, his hands pressing against the barrier, the magic glowing white and blue around the outline of his hands. “Leave John out of this! Take me if that is your master's wish, but leave John alone! He has nothing to do with this!”

Melmoth's many mouths open and the laughter is a horrific cacophony of disharmonious voices twisting around each other, perverting the very air with their din, forcing Sherlock to clap his hands over his ears.

“Did you honestly think that you could just stand there, insult me, and get away with it? No, Sherlock Holmes. My master has given me a command and I shall gladly fulfill it. Yes, he wants you for his own, but what you don't know is that he wants you both – you _and_ John Watson. And while I must obey the spirit of his word, I can be flexible on the letters.” Bloodthirsty and vengeful eyes narrow on Sherlock's pale face.

“I will find your John, and I will kill him. But first I will play with him awhile. Let him think he has a chance of surviving.” At the horrified expression on Sherlock's face, Melmoth chuckles almost benevolently. “Don't worry. I'll be gentle. I don't want to break him too badly, at least, not at first. Because I want him to suffer. I want him to pay for your every insult, your arrogance, your ego, and your pathetic attempt at summoning and controlling a demon of my power and age, the greatest aspersion of them all. Oh yes, I will play with John Watson, and then I will break his body and bones, revel in watching as his blood spills over the floor. And then, after I'm bored with that I will kill him and take his soul. Finally, I'll search you out no matter where you hide. I will throw down his mutilated body before you and then exact the same vengeance upon you in turn.”

There are no words. The only thing that Sherlock can feel is horror and the only thing that keeps going through his mind is john, John, JOHN! He opens his mouth, but for the first time in his life he can think of nothing to say. Mycroft was right. Caring is _not_ an advantage and sentiment _is_ a chemical defect found on the losing side. His feelings for John swamp Sherlock, leaving his normally organized and efficient brain scrambling for a solution, slipping on panic and emotions that seem determined to block any coherent or rational thought.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Melmoth clearly intends to have the last word as the demon abruptly disappears with a percussive bang, the air around Sherlock rushing in to fill the sudden gap. Body flying forward, Sherlock collides hard against the magical barrier and then rebounds. His head cracks on the hard cement floor as he hits the ground, sight exploding into stars and darkness.

  


*****

  
When that itching sensation starts to rise, John lifts his head and turns to Anthea before reaching down and gripping the knife that had been left behind. “He's coming.”

Blinking, Anthea turns to John. “Who is coming?”

“The demon that Sherlock summoned.” He doesn't have to see Anthea's face to register her reaction. The noise that escapes her is far more eloquent than any word, somehow conveying shock, anger, and a certain level of resignation– as if Sherlock summoning a demon came as no real surprise to her, just a disappointment. But his true focus is inward rather than out. It's as if the world has suddenly dropped away from beneath him, leaving him dangling helplessly. If the demon is coming, that means that Sherlock has lost control of it, and if Sherlock has lost control of it then people are going to die. Most likely a _lot_ of people are going to die, starting with him it would appear. Gritting his teeth John lets free a string of curses that even makes Anthea's brow raise in surprise at the fluent diatribe.

“And just what do you think you're going to do about it, Dr. Watson? You're in no shape to fight a kitten, let alone a demon. Better to stall for as long as we can. Mycroft's team is on their way.”

Shifting his grip on the bloody blade, John nods his head as he drags himself to his feet. “Stall. Right.” But John has no intention of stalling. He knows what he must do and sensing his determination, Anthea jerks her chin toward the pile of weapons she left on the floor. “If you're going to do something stupid, at least do so with a better selection to fight with.”

Turning toward her, John offers the Fae a grim snarl of a smile before he quickly strides across the room. There isn't much time left. He can feel it getting closer by the second. Holy water. That worked well the first time. John snatches that up, tucking the knife in his belt before picking up one of the two swords laying before him. He deftly swings the blade in a graceful arc, acclimatizing himself to its weight and feel before uncapping the water. Sprinkling this small of an amount will be like flinging a bit of acid at the creature – unless he hits a particularly tender spot, it will have little effect. But pour it on the blade and he transforms an ordinary sword into a holy and blessed one. He carefully trickles the sacrosanct water along the length of the sword, watching it slide down each side before anointing himself with the sign of the cross and closing his eyes.

“Lord, give me the strength I need to defeat this demon. In your name I do pray...”

The room becomes a disturbing mix of temperatures, by turns unbearably cold and then scathingly hot as Melmoth oozes his way through the walls. Lifting his gaze, John charges, sword held high. Surprise is his only hope at gaining any advantage, no matter how small, against the demon. But luck is not on his side as Melmoth shifts and rises up, hovering over John and laughing softly.

“I see you've come to greet me, but gracious, what a mess they made of you. If I had known they were going to give me damaged goods I would never have given them your blood.”

Ahhh. That explains it. The summoning. The inability to control his own body. That demon before had his blood. The only thing that could have been worse is if it had his true name. His calculated risk had gone terribly awry, but John can't spare any time to chastise himself over the mistake. John’s eyes narrow as he asks the only question that he cares about. “Where is Sherlock?”

“That fool? He thought he could summon and control me. ME! One of the most powerful and ancient demons that walks this earth and an Adept as small and puny as Sherlock Holmes believed he could bind me to him and have me catering to his every whim and desire? What arrogance! I showed him the truth of my power and left him lying in the very circle where he called me, dying in a pool of his own blood.”

John's left shoulder hasn't so much as twinged all day, let alone exploded into wings and a glowing sword of power. Shaking his head he calls Melmoth out. “You LIE! He fooled you, didn't he? He got the better of you after all and so you came here, to pick on someone your own size instead.” Well, Anthea did tell him to stall. Mocking a demon counts as stalling, doesn't it?

“You? You consider yourself to be my size? You can barely even stand, you small and wretched creature. You dare to consider yourself my equal?”

“I know that I am. More than your equal,” John growls, bringing his left hand up to grip the hilt of the sword along with his right. “Just as Sherlock was more than your equal. You left him because you couldn't get to him, could you? He was too strong, his magic too powerful for a demon as small and pathetic as you. What made you think you could hold your own against an Adept as skilled and powerful as him? No, you failed. You yielded to his call, you obeyed his commands, and in the end you failed to defeat him and now you will fail again.”

The demon roars and swirls towards John, unconcerned about the sword held within the human's hands. How could he know? John rushes in without hesitation, readily dodging Melmoth's attack, turning and pivoting with unexpected strength and grace despite his wounded arm. He is no hapless human, but a highly trained warrior, accomplished with centuries of experience using a sword. Within mere seconds he has cut large swaths through Melmoth's side, the demon shrieking as the holy blade carves through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. The pain and surprise distracts him enough that John is able to get in even more slashes and strikes against the demon, rolling out of the way when a mighty limb emerges and reaches out to crush him.

But his efforts cannot last. His strength was already waning and such an attack requires a fortitude that a mere human body cannot muster for long. All it takes is one lucky lashing limb to strike John and send him spinning, the blade knocked from his hand. He hears Anthea scream his name as he reaches for the knife tucked into his belt. A second later a set of massive teeth close on his torso and lift him into the air. He plunges the blade into whatever he can reach, but he knows the truth.

This is it. This is how it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, a new chapter in less than two weeks! :D
> 
> All the thanks to the magnificent [writeaddict](http://writeaddict.tumblr.com) for beta'ing my story. She's awesome. :D

A sharp inhale harkens his return to consciousness and for a moment Sherlock lies there, stunned and confused, staring up at the asbestos sprayed surface of the warehouse ceiling. Like a tidal wave, memories snap into place, a rush of adrenaline flooding him. John! With a groan, Sherlock regains his feet and leans heavily against the protective field that had been protecting him and now is hindering him.

“Magicae, release!”

The barrier drops and Sherlock stumbles over to the table, crashing into it and sending various bottles and potions clinking and knocking against each other. Blinking, he desperately grabs anything and everything relevant that he can find, shoving them into the pockets of his coat as rapidly possible, all the while muttering under his breath, “Pwca, clywed fy ngalwad! Rwy'n gwneud y cynnig yn gyfnewid am eich gwasanaethau. Gwneud fy ewyllys! Perfformio fy bidio!”

Nothing. Nothing happens. Cursing softly, Sherlock's gaze frantically searches over the table. “I don't have the time for this. I REALLY DON'T HAVE THE TIME FOR THIS!” John's life is at stake, and the fucking Pooka wants Sherlock to call him with an offer of meat? Where is he going to get meat in this area? There's nothing here, no Tesco, no butcher's shop, not even a local deli. No, wait. John. Wonderful, brilliant, astonishing _John!_ Reaching down, Sherlock pulls the sandwich that had been stuffed in his coat pocket and tears it open. Peeling off the layer of bread, Sherlock presses his lips to the roast beef and repeats the phrase again.

He turns and there it is, black fur, golden eyes, mouth lolling open as it looks lovingly at the sandwich. Shoving the damn thing at the Pooka, Sherlock bites out, “We don't have time to haggle now. Do this for me and I will do whatever you ask so long as the price is fair.”

The black beast gulps the offering down with one massive bite before tilting its head like a dog would, asking, “Whatever I want?”

There is risk here, but the Pooka are more mischievous than outright malicious. The price demanded will most definitely be more than the favor given, but Sherlock has no other options and leaving John to the less than tender mercies of Melmoth is not an option. “Dammit, I said we don't have time to haggle! If I don't get there now, John will _die!_ ” The golden eyes don't seem particularly perturbed. What is a human life to a creature of the Fae?

“What do you require of me?”

“A ride, the fastest you've ever run. That's it. I can handle the rest.” Well, maybe, but he doesn't add that part. Besides, he knows that the Pooka would refuse to help him battle a demon. The Fae and demonkind have a long and complex history.

Sherlock doesn't wait for a reply, his mind turning over the various spells and enchantments he gathered whilst in his Mind Palace, his hands automatically collecting everything and anything that might be of use.

“I accept your terms,” the Pooka replies.

Patting his pockets, Sherlock makes sure that everything is in place before he stops, a sick realization filling his stomach with lead. Goddammit, he needs to _find_ John first and he has absolutely no idea where he might be. No, wait... the Roman coin. He can use that. All he has to do is reverse the spell. Then instead of John summoning him, Sherlock will 'find' his lost thing – namely, John.

Spinning around, Sherlock curses the arcane requirements of his magic even as he draws a quick chalk circle about himself. It's crude and without the requisite symbols, but he doesn't have the time. John could already be facing the demon. John could already be dead. Pulling the magic to him with haste and determination, Sherlock doesn't even wait for it to be fully formed before reaching out, crying out sharply, “Natero! Ego quaerere quod perierat! Auxilium invenire quod est, post gloriam misit me!”

The power swirls around him violently, the streets of London exploding within his brain, a path of light blazing down alleyways and past buildings, through intersections and along street signs, the speed and rush of it taking his breath away. No time to lose! A soft growl escapes the Pooka as Sherlock curls his fingers into his ruff and mounts his back. His knees grip the massive barrel of the Faery creature's chest and Sherlock leans low over the black beast whispering, “South. Run. Run as fast as you ever have, as you can. I'll make it worth your while.”

Nothing else matters right now. John is everything and everything is John. The Pooka explodes into motion and with the vision emblazoned upon his mind, Sherlock directs him with words and touch, leaning into the motion.

The pair blaze through the city of London in a black blur of magic. Later people will talk of a black motorcycle weaving at incredible speeds through impossible traffic. They will claim that shadows leapt from building to building, that the night air was gathered together into a moving form and flew through itself. And they would be right.

For Sherlock everything whizzes by at impossible speeds and yet within in his mind they move slowly. Landmarks are recognized, signs sought and found. Pathways open up before them and close behind as Sherlock prepares magic and spells along the journey. Because he needs to do more than just find John, he has to save John. And do so he is going to have to fight one of the most powerful demons he has ever encountered with nothing more than the potions in his pockets and the spells he gathers from his Mind Palace on the fly – literally.

He whispers once more into the Pooka's ear, wind whipping his hair and coat into a frenzy. “Faster. Faster!”

  


*****************

  
John has never known pain like this before now. He can dimly remember the pain that Watson felt when he was shot in the shoulder and when he was burning with fever. He can remember the pain he first felt upon becoming human – the burning cold and the sharp ground beneath his feet. Since then he's suffered all sorts of minor injuries - concussions, bumps, cuts, and many bruises. Some more unpleasant than others, but all of them manageable. As an Angel he fought and felt no pain, no suffering. But this? This is something beyond anything that he could have imagined, and worse, it's more than he can withstand.

The demon picks him up as easily as a rag doll, shaking him between one of his many sets of teeth before flinging him against the wall. John feels ribs break, his skull cracking against the cement wall. He falls to the floor as if boneless. Perhaps he is.

“I can't understand what he sees in you,” hisses Melmoth as he lumbers over, blatantly ignoring Anthea as she screams and struggles against the iron bars holding her captive. “You are so... plain. Clearly nothing of importance. A mere mortal human, nothing more. Boring.” Another toss up into the air, like a toy mouse to a ruthlessly playful cat. “Predictable.” Flung against the other wall this time. John feels something in his lower back snap and his legs go completely numb and nerveless, collapsing beneath his weight. How he is even still conscious at this point is beyond him, but he knows that it cannot be long now. Anthea is screaming at him, or perhaps she is just screaming his name? He isn't really sure. He can't move, he can barely breathe. One lung punctured, the doctor within him assesses. Hips broken, possibly shattered. Spinal cord definitely broken somewhere by the twelfth vertebrae. Massive head contusion, most likely a fractured skull. Left arm broken in three places, the right in two. He has no idea if his legs are still intact or not, but it seems unlikely at this point.

There is nothing he can do to stop this. The only thing still within his power is for John to summon Sherlock. Simply focus on the coin in his pocket and think of Sherlock. But he will do no such thing. Bringing Sherlock here will not save John’s life and it would certainly put Sherlock's in jeopardy. If this is his last dying act, at least he will not give Sherlock over to this demon. He simply has to hope, to pray, that if he distracts him long enough, Mycroft will arrive with reinforcements and either capture or destroy the demon before he gets any ideas about going after Sherlock.

Perhaps this is the answer that he sought? He will die and perhaps in dying he will disappear and John Watson's soul will finally be free of him. Then it can ascend to heaven as it had always meant to until he interfered and stole it for himself. Only, what if it can't find the way? With no Guardian Angel to protect it, John Watson's soul will be exposed, vulnerable for the taking by this monster that even now gloats as it tears him apart.

He has no control, a condition that he never concerned himself with before he became human and a condition he has struggled with ever since he became flesh. There is nothing left for him to do but yield and let go. He will have to have faith. Faith in God. Faith in Mycroft. Faith that his sacrifice will not be in vain.

He senses that the demon has picked him up again, though he isn't sure how he can tell anymore. A change in pressure or blood rushing to his head? The pain has become so all encompassing that he doesn't feel anything anymore. Everything has lost its color and is fading to black.

It is hard, not to think of Sherlock in these last moments. It is quite possibly the hardest thing John has ever done.

  


*****************

  
So close, so close! They narrow in on the focal point, the coin in his pocket burning the map into his mind, the distance growing shorter and shorter by the second until Sherlock sits up high upon the Pooka's back. Pointing ahead at a darkened warehouse, he shouts, “There! In there!” Man and beast charge though the nearest window in a gleaming shower of glass and black fur, Sherlock's coat swirling behind them in a billowing cloud. He takes in everything at a glance, but the first thing to register isn't the massive demon filling the space of the warehouse and it isn't the cage holding Anthea back, her hands smoking where they grip the pure iron bars as she screams in fury and rage. No, the first thing to make an indelible impression upon Sherlock is the tiny form of John Watson lying on the floor, bloodied and broken from where he was dropped, John's blood still dripping from Melmoth's grinning teeth.

Never has Sherlock felt such a fury come over him and, leaping off the back of the Pooka, he whirls, reaching into his pocket for a bottle. The protective magic imbued in his clothing already covers him, writhing and burning around his body, crackling like barely restrained electricity; potential energy just waiting for the right catalyst to become kinetic. Flinging the bottle overhead like a hand grenade, Sherlock speaks dark words, arcane ones, fighting fire with fire, using the darker black magics against its own kind without thought or care of the potential cost to himself.

The glass shatters as it hits Melmoth, covering over the surface of his flesh with licking black flames, causing him to roar in shock and pain. One massive paw descends to swat at Sherlock like some irritating insect, but Sherlock is prepared. The blow hits, certainly, but the coat's enchantment holds, sworn to protect Sherlock against bodily harm. As he flies backward it wraps around him, cushioning both the blow from the demon as well as his impact on the floor several yards away. Rolling backwards and then regaining his feet fluidly, Sherlock does not hesitate to run headlong into danger and peril. He can't help but notice that Melmoth has already taken considerable damage, but there's no time to consider who or how it was inflicted. As it is, it takes all of Sherlock's strength and concentration not to waver as he passes John's unmoving form. Pulling a piece of chalk from his pocket he murmurs of a prayer as he focuses his mind upon one thing and one thing only; killing Melmoth. The simple piece of calcium carbonate expands within his grasp, its composition shifting and changing until Sherlock wields a jagged spear glowing white with power.

The demon before him is still thrashing in pain, trying to quench the fire that has engulfed him, scorching flesh that should have been impervious to any flame, burning past skin to muscle and mucous membranes. But hitting a moving target of such an amorphous shape is no easy feat. Sherlock ducks and rolls to avoid yet another blow from the beast. He charges full tilt but his final aim is off, the spear penetrating Melmoth's chest but missing his heart. This time scorching hot air erupts from the open wound and forces Sherlock to leap back and cover his face with his scarf. Even with that gesture, he can smell his hair burning and melting in the face of brimstone inspired temperatures. The spear dangles from the beast, out of reach. He will need another weapon. Good thing he came prepared.

Another pocket, another choice, this time a folded piece of paper that, with a few lowly muttered incantations blossoms into a sword. Without hesitation, Sherlock dives to the left, aiming for one of the ichor dripping black eyes. This time his aim is true, the batting clawed hand reaching him a second after he plunges the blade into the liquid depths of one of the demon's eyes. Another unholy scream echoes throughout the building, literally causing the foundation to shake and tremble.

It's unfortunate that the Pooka departed just as quickly as he was relieved of Sherlock's weight, but the Adept isn't surprised. This isn't his battle and the Fae and Demonkind have a complicated relationship, the bounds of which are best left untested. Still, it would have been nice, having a companion to aid him in this battle.

_John._

No, that sort of thinking leads to madness. John can't be with him now and he can't be distracted from the battle worrying over him. If he cannot defeat Melmoth it won't matter if John is still alive. If Sherlock wins, there's a chance that John can be saved. If Sherlock loses, then they both die. Gripping the sword tightly in his hands, Sherlock weaves and bobs, dodging strikes and blows, his enchanted clothing protecting him from the claws that nearly ensnare him. He darts into an opening and cuts into Melmoth's undulating flesh once more, this time throwing another potion into the cavity that he makes, ducking and rolling out of harm's way as he utters another spell, spitting it out like an epithet.

The reaction is rewarding as the potion explodes, causing Melmoth to rear back with a shriek, a large gaping hole now in his side. With a vicious growl, multiple limbs and mouths reach out for Sherlock and, struggling to evade them, the detective is forced to retreat and throw out more potions in an effort to prevent Melmoth from simply surrounding him and swallowing him whole. The gaseous fumes that arise block off avenues of approach and escape and Sherlock finds that his ability to attack and retreat is growing limited. Dashing in once more, Sherlock manages to lop off one limb only to find another nimbly reaching past the opening of his coat.

The fabric does its best to wrap about his frame, but the tip of one claw makes it past the edge and he can feel the fiery burn of it as it tears across his abdomen before raking free. Rolling over and over again, using the impact to gain himself some distance and a fraction of time, Sherlock gathers himself on his hands and knees, assessing the situation. The demon is grimacing and bleeding ichor and fluids from numerous grievous wounds but at the same time it is laughing with delighted and wicked glee.

Hand clutching his bleeding belly, Sherlock assesses that he is very lucky. The wound is not very deep at all - no yawning flesh beneath his fingers, no intestines or other organs are trying to spill their way out. Reaching up to drag off his scarf, he quickly folds and wraps the length of it around his torso, bandaging the bleeding flesh as quickly and tightly as he can, another spell softly murmured to bring the fabric tight against his skin, holding him firmly and giving him support.

“It was always going to come to this, Sherlock Holmes. You were only staving off the inevitable. Beg me! Plead for a merciful death. I promise you won't suffer. I'll kill you quickly. You won't have to suffer as your friend did.”

Sherlock's eyes flicker over to where John lies on the ground, unmoving. He can't tell if he's breathing or not. But now is not the time to falter. Now is the time to show strength, even if it is more than he possesses. Bravado might just win the day.

Sherlock snarls, baring his teeth in response. “I don’t think so. You are in far greater jeopardy than I am right now. Your wounds grow grievous, Melmoth, while I’m still in peak form and with more than enough magic to end you here and now.”

The laughter of the demon is booming, almost deafening and Sherlock covers his ears for a moment before one hand reaches into a pocket to pull out his last bottle. He doubts that Melmoth will leave of his own will, but if Sherlock is very careful, if he can hurt him badly enough with this last bit of magic, Melmoth may be forced to leave and return to Hell in order to regain his strength and if so then the portal will close behind him. It is the best option. It is the only option. It is only when Sherlock realizes that his hand is shaking does it occur to him that perhaps his confidence is misguided.

“You are wrong, foolish mortal, for you already dead! Are you just realizing it now?”

Poison. The claws are tipped with poison. It wouldn't take more than a scratch to harm him and Sherlock has taken quite a bit more than that.

“Swear an oath to me! Give me your soul and I will give you your life!”

Souls. Back to this again, is it? Ordinarily Sherlock would offer his soul and be done with it. What was a soul anyway but energy? And if his is more powerful and valuable than an ordinary one, well, he isn't very surprised by that fact. He won't need it after he dies. Death is just death. There is nothing after that. No fanciful heaven, of that he is sure. No, he will die and his energy will disperse, or it will be collected, with or without his permission. But a soul freely given is far more powerful than one that is stolen – hence why demons are always making pacts with humans.

“It seems a poor bargain, seeing as how you'll just be delivering me to your master. But I have a better offer. Save John's life and I'll give you my soul,” Sherlock mumbles, or at least he thinks he did. He isn't sure really because his lips are numb and his tongue feels thick and unwieldy in his mouth. It seems that the demon understands him for he laughs and shakes his head. “Nay, foolish mortal, he was dead ere you arrived here. I cannot bring him back, for his soul has departed his flesh. You bargain for yourself only.”

If the poison wasn't already draining all of the sensation from Sherlock's body, those words surely do. His mouth breathes a soft 'no' as he turns to look at John's still and bloody form. He can't feel the tears on his cheeks that rise sudden and unbidden at the very thought that he is too late. “No...”

“Yesssssss. And soon you will be dead too, unless you give your soul to me.”

Sitting upright is suddenly harder than he thought it would be. It's as if all of the muscles in his body have become soft and slippery, unwilling to obey his commands. He hangs there, leaning back on one hand and his heels, head tilting to one side as he struggles to hold eye contact with the demon. “No. No, I will not. You will not give you my soul.”

Another booming laugh sends Sherlock down to the ground. “Foolish mortal, then die! There's nothing to stop me from claiming you soul once it passes from your corpse!”

The room spins around wildly and Sherlock finds himself gasping for breath as his diaphragm begins to seize up, the neurotoxin shutting down each muscle group one after another. So this is it. This is how he will die. His body will refuse to breathe for him. His heart will refuse to beat for him. This is one time where the power of his great mind is helpless against the will of his body.

  


*****************

  
Something is wrong. John lies on the ground, staring up at the ceiling of the warehouse, utterly confused and disoriented, as if he had just woken from a dream. Slowly he sits up, lifting his hands before looking around himself. His surroundings are strangely hazy and unfocused, as if someone had surrounded him in a translucent material, shadow figures visible beyond it, but the details are blurred. It takes a few moments before comprehension dawns. The demon. He was fighting a demon. He was... he was _dying._

Jerking up to his feet, John looks over himself, flexing his fingers and staring at his arms in amazement. There's nothing there; no blood, no broken bones, no crushed limbs. But no, wait, that's impossible. It is only once John turns that he gets a glimpse of the crumpled and bloodied body lying still upon the cement floor a few yards away from him. His body. Right. Not alive. Dead. Very much dead. Yet, he is still here and he's still himself. That doesn't make sense. If anyone should be here, it should just be John Watson's soul, right? He looks up but there is no tunnel of light, nothing beckoning him to rise.

So now what?

His spirit jerks in shock at the sensation of a hand lightly resting upon one shoulder. Spinning around, he finds himself looking at his mirror image. The figure of John Watson stands before him, still wearing his military fatigues although, unlike his nightmares, this Watson is free of any wounds, blood, or signs of violence. At the look of shock that must be upon his face, the other Watson gives him a crooked smile. “Hey there. Surprise, right? S'okay, take deep breath or, or something.”

John blinks and then blinks again, his mind unable to comprehend what he's seeing. “Wait, how can you be here?” Reaching up, John reaches out, his fingers hovering just above his doppelganger's armor.

“It wasn't easy.” Watson's head tilts to one side as he studies his other self. “You're a very difficult fellow to talk to, but then again I'm a pretty determined arsehole when I want to be.” His eyes crinkle with amusement as he steps closer. “It didn't seem right, them not explaining things to you. So I figured I would. But I couldn't figure out a way to get down here and then there's that whole non-interference thing that they kept threatening me with.” He shrugs, as if he didn't really care one way or the other about getting into trouble. “After asking around, I tried to enter some of your dreams to see if I could indirectly explain things, but your subconscious is very stubborn.” He rubs at the back of his neck, a small grimace forming on his lips. “Sorry about that. It's my fault you've been having so many nightmares lately. Damn hard to influence people's dreams apparently.”

John's mouth opens and closes as he tries to think of what to ask, where to start.

“Right. So, conveniently you died and that opens up a channel between here and there. All I had to do was pay attention to what was going on. Nobody was looking, so I just came on down.” Watson chuckles softly at John's struggle. “I know you've been freaking out ever since you got here. You've probably been waiting for this moment for a long time now and I bet you have a lot of questions. Best make it quick, though. Don't know how long this will last or if someone will notice and yank me back up.”

Blinking, John thinks for a moment before he replies, “I do. But first, I need to give you this back.”

He takes a step closer but then halts. He has absolutely no idea how to do this. Nothing he experienced as an angel taught him how such an exchange should be made. Indeed, he never thought such an exchange _could_ be made. He turns around and steps backward, into Watson, and holds still, expecting their two forms to merge and become one. That would make sense, wouldn't it? The sensation is strange and awkward, like someone stepping on your feet or standing right behind you.

After a few seconds, Watson coughs and asks, “Ahhhh, what are you doing?”

With a sound of frustration, John steps forward again, still wholly himself, and turns around. His hands gesture at his chest uselessly as he murmurs, “I'm sorry but I don't, I don't know how to return it to you.”

Watson's brows quirk up and then down, frowning as he asks, “Return what?”

“Your soul. I didn't realize what I had done. I didn't realize in taking over your body, your life, I also would be taking your soul. I know this is hard to believe but it was an accident. I would never do such a thing knowingly. It goes against every fiber of my being, every precept of my duty.”

Watson stares for a moment and then bursts into a short laugh before shaking his head. Reaching out, he claps John's shoulder, shaking it slightly. “As I think you already know, I wouldn't be here if you took my soul. It's fine, John, it's all fine. What you have, I gave you. Willingly.”

Blinking rapidly, John takes an imaginary breath. “I don't understand. You gave me your soul? Why would you do such a thing? Your soul is everything that you are.” Perhaps this is not what it seems. Perhaps this is an illusion? Some demon trickery? But it seems so real, so right. The goodness that he feels emanating from Watson is warm and soothing. His smile is brilliant and filled with wry amusement and empathetic understanding.

“It's all pretty crazy and barmy, so don't stress too much or berate yourself. You've done nothing wrong. In truth, I don't really know what the heck is going on either, so I can't tell you much. All I know is that when I died I was asked a question. Someone asked me if I would willingly donate a piece of my soul to you. And then I saw you – who you had been, what you had done, and most recently your time with this Sherlock Holmes fellow.”

His smile turns wistful as he complains, “In all honesty, I wish it had been me that Stamford introduced to Sherlock that day. He seems like quite the interesting character, if a bit of a cock most of the time. I think he and I would have gotten on. I know he would have made living after the war a lot easier for an adrenaline junkie like myself. But apparently, that wasn't my destiny.”

Watson studies John quietly for a moment, assessing him, before nodding in a firm military manner. “I'm betting you're the type to take the blame for everything, so I'm going to say this one more time and you need to believe me. You did not steal my body. I gave my permission for you to take my form and my memories. Likewise, I was asked, and chose, to give you a piece of my soul so that you might grow one of your own.”

His hand reaches out, ghostly and insubstantial, and yet still tangible as it lays against John's chest. “This belongs to you. That body is no longer mine and this soul is your own. And while my memories and a part of my soul will always be a part of you, you will continue to grow into your own man, independent of me. So rest easy.”

“Rest.” Yes, that is what is to come, he supposes. Turning, John looks down at the shell of his physical body just as he hears something happening behind him. It is hard to concentrate on his earthly surroundings. He knows that he should be paying attention, but his mind keeps shying away from the mortal plane. Turning, he sees the hazy figure of someone fighting with a demon. “Sherlock...” He feels the pull of his friend, his charge, strongly, his heart and soul stirring at the sight of the fighting Adept. The very air around him feels heavy and the fog obscuring his vision seems thinner and more transparent.

Another soft chuckle turns his attention toward Watson. “Sorry, no rest for the weary. You have work to do.”

“Work? What sort of work?”

Watson glances over John's shoulder, wincing at whatever he sees there before his gaze shifts back. “As I said before, I don't know the particulars, but I think you will realize one job _very_ shortly.”

John can hear the sounds of the battle between man and demon raging behind him, he can hear Anthea's screams of fury, but he still feels disconnected from this mortal coil, hovering between two worlds and uncertain of which one he is supposed to choose.

“I don't understand. What am I? Why is this happening to me? Am I human or an angel? Who asked you to give me part of your soul and why do I need one? What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to be?”

Watson's regard is regretful, his hands lifting, palms up and empty. “I don't have answers for those questions. They are way above my pay grade, I'm afraid. But I'm sure there is a reason. Have faith in yourself. You were a good angel. You seem like a good man. I'm sure that whatever this next step in your life is, you'll be good at that too. No matter what happens from here on out, I'm pretty sure you'll do the right thing. I'd like to think that I would, and you're part me, right?”

John squints as he realizes that Watson is fading, his body growing indistinct and blurry around the edges.

“Balls. Looks like my time is up. Good luck, and you better not ruin my reputation or I'll come back and kick your arse, okay?

John tries to reply, tries to nod, but he feels a tearing in his heart, his left shoulder suddenly burning viciously, causing him to gasp and grip at it.

Watson looks a bit sad and regretful, his gaze rising up before he lifts a hand to his counterpart. “Oh yeah, and take care of my sister for me, will you? I know she's a huge pain, but I miss her and still love her. And take care of that body too, at least better than I did.”

John manages to nod once before Watson completely vanishes. With his disappearance, an incredible the pain lances through John, forcing him to his knees. He sinks to the ground, sinks into his own flesh, his soul shuddering as it slides back into place with a soft click. And then everything explodes into fire and light.

  


*****************

  
She can't even feel her hands any more, the flesh red and black now. Have the nerves been burnt to nothing? No matter. She is failing in her duty. She is _failing_. Dr. Watson's body lies a few yards away from her, bent unnaturally and still. There is neither breath nor life within that body, only blood seeping from its broken form. And now Sherlock is collapsing, dying, the demon rising above him, gloating in delight when it happens.

Anthea shields her eyes as there is a sudden explosion of light so bright and violent that it’s blinding. Her soft cry is echoed far louder by the demon, and squinting against the brightness, peering through the gaps between her fingers, Anthea's eyes open helplessly wide at what she is seeing.

Dr. Watson was dead. Even without touching his body, she knew it. There is no way he could survive that kind of abuse and live. And yet there he stands, feathers of copper and gold sprouting from his back like the wings of a majestic hawk, beating the air in a swirl of heat and light. An angel? But no, it's all wrong. There are no wings of white, no holy light emanating from his form. Could be another demon? But as soon as the thought crosses her mind she dismisses it. The power coming off of him feels pure and good, not corrupted and dark. If he is an angel, then he is unlike any she has ever seen or read about before. His body is still covered with the blood it spilt, but is no longer broken. Limbs once twisted are now strong and straight, his posture upright and poised. But most impressive of all is that held within his right hand is a blade like a molten rainbow, a swirling oil-slick of light and power that descends in a powerful arch toward the astonished demon.

The monster leaps back, but not in enough time to escape injury, a burning gash of light carved into its amorphous form, causing Melmoth to scream as if he had been thrown into a pool of holy water. Writhing, the demon reaches within itself for its own weapon, a sword that appears to be made of blood and obsidian stone. When the blades strike one another, sparks of fluorescent fire and burning blackness scatter up and mingle in the air between them.

Each figure circles and darts toward the other, swinging and striking out, but transformation of Dr. Watson is too fast, too furious. With each slash of his sword, more and more of the demon is covered in fissures of pure white which burn across his flesh like cracks upon parched soil. Although his wings and body take blows and cuts as well, he heeds them not but returns them thrice-fold with renewed fury. A meaty appendage flies out and catches Dr. Watson straight on, flinging him back through the air. Wings fluttering wildly, he tries to halt his tumbling fall. But instead of rising to the attack, Dr. Watson crouches where he has landed, eyes closing as he tosses his sword in the air and then catches it along the blade between his palms. Sensing an opening, Melmoth rushes forward, with a roar of triumph, his brutal laughter roiling through the air as he closes in for the kill.

Anthea cannot hear the softly uttered words, but she sees Dr. Watson's lips move as his brow creases in concentration. With a percussive crack of thunder John and the sword of his spirit explode into golden light – a pure light that glows and spreads like wildfire within the strikes made upon the demon's flesh. The fault lines carved into Melmoth's flesh begin to deepen and spread, opening up the dark shadows, revealing muscle, organs and ichor, each edge dancing toward the other. The demon has halted in its forward dash, eyes wide open in shock and multiple mouths screaming in unfathomable pain. Unable to do anything but writhe in complete agony, it is with an impressive shockwave that Melmoth explodes, the air filling with hissing smoke and a powerful smell of brimstone.

The air is thick with the slowly dispersing miasma of what was once one of the most powerful demons in Hell, and Anthea coughs and struggles to see through her watering eyes at what is happening in the aftermath.

John rises up from where he was crouched, faintly glowing, and takes wing once more, swooping down to where Sherlock lies unnaturally still, moments away from death.

Taking the limp form into his arms, he places his mouth over Sherlock's, breathing life back into his body. Sherlock’s body shudders, his chest rising and falling in a deep breath before Sherlock slumps down once more. John lays a hand upon the wound on Sherlock’s abdomen, cradling the unconscious man close. His wings encircle them protectively, a golden light suffusing both their forms before slowly fading away. In that instant the sword that was glowing on the ground next to them vanishes and, with a gasp of pain, Dr. Watson flinches, clutching at his left shoulder. His wings twist and shrink down into nothing, causing him to arch his back in what appears to be agony. A mere mortal once more, the doctor crumples next to Sherlock. She watches them both closely, assured after a few moments of study that they are both alive and breathing. With a soft sigh, Anthea hunkers down and does the only thing she can do: wait until the doors of the warehouse smash open and Mycroft's service men come rushing in to 'rescue' them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Pwca, clywed fy ngalwad! Rwy'n gwneud y cynnig yn gyfnewid am eich gwasanaethau. Gwneud fy ewyllys! Perfformio fy bidio!” is Welsh and translates to, "Pooka, hear my call! I make this offering in return for your services. Do my will! Perform my bidding!"
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Sorry about the really long hiatus there. A lot of bad things happened to me, the worst of which was developing rheumatoid arthritis, so my hands became massively swollen and painful. Thankfully I'm doing better physically for the time being, but sadly it never goes away.
> 
> Only two more chapters after this one - a very short one and then a (hopefully) intriguing Epilogue. Thank you all for hanging in there with me! I really appreciate it. :-)
> 
> Many thanks to the patient and hardworking [writeaddict](http://writeaddict.tumblr.com) for beta'ing my story.

John wakes up slowly, blinking in confusion. For a moment he has no idea where he is or what has happened. Memories slide into place – Sherlock dying, the demon before him, his sword held between his hands as he carved fire into Melmoth's flesh; the holy power tearing him asunder. He looks to the right, eyeing the ceiling and equipment. Ohhh, he's in a hospital. Wait. Sherlock. Turning his head to the left he is surprised to find Mycroft. Sherlock's brother stands next to his bed, perfectly dressed as always, studying his mobile before looking past the screen at John's face and offering him a cheerless smile. “Ah. You're awake. Excellent.”

His mouth is dry and tastes like it's full of cotton, but John manages to rasp, “Where is Sherlock?” John winces as he attempts to sit up. Regardless of the fact that his body feels like someone took it for 12 rounds in the ring and then some, he manages to push himself upright. Better some physical discomfort than the the alternative of lying supine and defenseless with Mycroft lording over him. At least this way he has some small illusion of being on even ground with Sherlock's brother. He finds a cup of water on his bedside table and reaching over he picks it up, sipping at the cool water within gratefully.

Mycroft's eyes study John's every movement, as if he were a fascinating specimen that he can't wait to dissect. “He's a few doors down, resting peacefully. Well,” he amends, “as peacefully as my brother is ever willing to rest. He's fully recovered from the poisoning and his battle with the demon, but I've ordered his doctor to make it seem that his condition is worse than it actually is.” A cocky smirk curls his lips. “All he really needs is some fluids. He is slightly dehydrated after all, as are you. It's the only ill effect either of you seem to be experiencing, other than some residual muscular strain.”

Some of the tension eases from John's frame. That's his biggest concern laid to rest at least. “I bet he's just loving that.”

“Mmmm. Yes, well perhaps not, but I wanted some time to speak with you privately.” His head tilts to one side. “How are you feeling?”

John shifts, tentatively testing his limbs and mobility. To his surprise, everything seems to be working, albeit sore. He didn't have the time to think about what would happen to him if he survived the battle. There was no time to think, only to react. When he used to battle regularly, as an angel, he took damage but felt no pain. Over time he healed, though he always knew that if he were damaged beyond his own ability to repair, he would cease to exist. But he had no cause to believe that his angelic abilities would do anything more than hold him together for the duration of the battle, until he was able to ensure that Sherlock would live. There was no reason for him to suspect that he wouldn't revert to his previous human state and die all over again from wounds too grievous for a mortal to survive. Even if the damage done by Melmoth was healed by his transformation, there was no guarantee that the following battle wounds would not have remained. To find himself fully healed is unexpected to say the least.

“I suppose I can't really complain, can I? I feel like I've had the crap pounded out of me, but I appear to be in one piece.”

The silence that follows is awkward. There's an elephant in the room, and it’s John. Anthea could not have missed what happened back at the warehouse. Between the way Mycroft is looking at him and knowing this fact, John cannot help but feel misgivings as to what is going to happen next. Mycroft has him at a distinct disadvantage. But until Mycroft presses the point, John certainly isn't going to. The staring and unspoken words are starting to make his skin crawl so he gives into the urge to break it.

“I'm sorry.”

Mycroft glances at his perfect manicure before inquiring, “For?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, John frowns at the memory of what happened before Melmoth appeared. So many unanswered questions. “The Prometheus drive... we lost it.”

“Oh yes, I know. Good work.”

“Good... work?”

“Oh yes.” Lowering his hand, Mycroft's regard lifts to John’s face. “We've been looking for a solution to the Zendithar problem for years now. It's been the plan since day one that his minions would gain the drive from you or Anthea and turn it over to him.”

It's a name that John knows well, but he offers Mycroft a blank look, keeping that knowledge from showing on his features. “Zendithar? Who's is Zendithar, and why would you want him to have the Prometheus drive? Wasn't the whole point to recover it before it could be stolen?” He pauses for a moment, knowing that this whole situation was an elaborate set up, but not why. “I don't understand.”

“Of course not. You weren’t meant to understand. If you had, you would never have agreed to assist me in lieu of Sherlock. No, the Promethus drive was both the bait and the hook, but you cannot fish without a line and pole. You, doctor, were the line and Anthea the pole, ready to reel you in should you stray beyond your depth.”

“So that was it? All of that to do what, tempt a demon?”

Mycroft's lips draw back into a grimace of disgust. “Absolutely not. No, I wouldn't deign to put so much time and effort into such a simple goal. That would be preposterous. No, the object that you were searching for, the Prometheus drive, was nothing more than a ploy. A red herring to flush out the prey that I had been seeking for some time now.” At John's baffled expression, Mycroft releases a long suffering sigh. “Do you really think I would send you and Anthea off on a case with one only goal to be secured? Really, Doctor Watson. I should think you would know me better than that by now. Why would I solve one problem when I had the opportunity to solve four?”

John blinks. “Four?”

“Yes, four. Do you need me to spell them out for you?”

It only takes John a moment to realize one side of the puzzle before him. “The werewolves. You used me to find the werewolves.” Groaning softly, John leans back against his pillow, bracing himself for the task of facing Mycroft during one of his gloats. “Yes, do please enlighten me,” he replies.

With a scowl of annoyance, Mycroft tugs lightly at his sleeves and runs a hand through his hair, straightening its already perfectly coiffed condition. “There were four tasks that needed to be accomplished, all of which could be done nicely by the apparent betrayal of one of my employees, through an act of treasonous theft that ended in his murder. Which, as you rightly determined, was in fact faked, but not for the reasons you assumed.”

“Westie is not guilty of treason then.”

“Oh no, far from it. In fact he received a medal of honor and a commendation, though sadly he is not allowed to boast of either of them for many years to come. He and his fiance, who you met of course, are currently living in another country with a new name and a modest fortune for the inconvenience.”

That would explain it. Last time I saw her she was definitely a tad cheerful for someone who had just lost her soon-to-be-husband. I knew something was odd, but it fits now.” John’s lips purse at the memory, relieved that she wasn’t involved in Westie’s death, but aghast at what she had been put through.

Mycroft shows no remorse for his action, merely postulating, “Yes. Should have sent her along first, but we need her testimony to help you believe the scenario and to get you invested in the investigation, as it were.”

“So, what, you just made her think that her fiance was dead and then told her that he wasn’t? That’s more than just a bit not okay, Mycroft. That’s outrageous and cruel!”

Mycroft blinks mildly, one brow rising as if the matter was of no consequence whatsoever. “She was well compensated for her emotional distress.” As if that somehow makes the whole situation alright.

“Money doesn’t magically make what you did to her go away, you know.”

“Actually, John, you’ll find that usually money makes everything just fine or, at the very least, acceptable. But let us move along, shall we? I shan’t bore you with all the details of the matter. Just highlights, shall we? In no particular order them. One you have already ascertained for yourself. For some time now I have been trying to make contact with the werewolf community to broker an agreement, guaranteeing them protection, support, and job security in return for certain favors. But they've been less than receptive to a meeting.”

John lifts his head, eyes narrowing as now it is his turn to study the man before him. Mycroft is twirling his umbrella against the floor in a subtle gesture of frustration, eyes cast down to the tip. John is well aware of the near genocide of the werewolf race and a crease forms between his eyebrows as he counters, “Can you blame them? After their near extinction by the hands of the British government?”

“So you know of that, do you? You continue to be both a source of surprise and disappointment.” When John opens his mouth to retort, Mycroft silences him with a sharp rap of his umbrella upon the floor. “Since that is the case, you know full well that happened nearly a century before I was in charge of the MOD. At that time they were seen as a very real threat by both the MOD and the population at large, though the latter were, for the most part, unaware of the supernatural source of the problem. Most assumed the attacks were caused by a natural wolf or some other wild animal. In the cities, they were, thanks to the MOD, attributed to a mad serial killer, much like Jack the Ripper, but with considerable less finesse. The MOD had their hands full, keeping the public unaware of the true nature of these crimes and, much to my chagrin, they chose widespread extermination rather than a more surgical extraction of the problematic elements.”

He grimaces slightly in distaste over the whole matter, and shrugs. “Yes, it was a terrible course of action made by the MOD that I'm not proud of. However, now the surviving werewolf race could be a great advantage to us in our battle to protect the country. They have nearly perfected their supernatural invisibility, to the point where not even I can detect one. Unless they are caught during the moment of transformation. Otherwise, they register as wholly human when human and wholly wolf when in their wolf form.”

“How inconvenient,” John snorts sardonically. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft replies, as if taking John’s words at face value. “Every hint, rumor, and invitation that I have sent out to broker an agreement with them has come back with resounding silence. So, what better way to flush them out than to give them something to fear? In this case, I released rumors that the Prometheus drive contained information regarding experimentation on a number of captured werewolves, developing new technologies to identify them through blood pathology. I knew they would take the bait and they did. What I did not realize was that it would be you rather than Anthea who won over their trust. So for that I must thank you, Dr. Watson. We are now able to take our first steps into offering the werewolf community reparations for my predecessors' mistakes and hopefully work toward a new and viable relationship that should nicely benefit all involved.”

Folding his arms over his chest, John accuses bitterly, “In other words, you _used_ me.”

One brow arches, as if John had just proclaimed the sky was blue. “Well, of course I did. I use everyone. I work for the government. That's what we do. Surely Sherlock has expounded upon that fact after every ill-advised visit I have made?”

That much is true and John can only grunt in concession, his mouth opening to protest just as Mycroft lifts his hand and counters, “I give you my word, John, no harm will come to them. There are dark times ahead and it simply behooves me to make certain that as many supernatural beings as possible are sided with humans rather than against them. That is all, nothing else.” And then, as if he suspected those words were insufficient proof, he repeats gravely, “I give you my word.”

“And what exactly is your word worth? You've already stated that you're a politician. Lies are second nature to you.”

Mycroft studies John quietly for a moment before he inquires, “Is there an oath that would assuage your doubts, Dr. Watson?”

Wrinkling his nose, John considers the Mycroft that he has known since childhood. What promise would he keep? What bond would he hold sacrosanct? After a few more moments of contemplation, John's eyes meet his. “Swear upon your brother's life.”

Blinking, Mycroft opens and closes his mouth. This is a very serious oath and for a minute his gaze becomes distracted, most likely mentally considering all of the ramifications of it before he answers softly. “I swear to you, on the life of my brother, than I will do my utmost to keep the werewolf community from harm, as much as I am able to.”

John's eyes narrow before he nods. “The second?”

“Ahhh, the second was a much less punishing choice on all sides. After all, you suffered no harm from your interactions with the Fae. No, that was merely a test. Some time ago I had drawn up a treaty with the Fae, but you know how they are when it comes to twisting words and meanings, never lying, but always finding a way to get what they want in the end, regardless.” There is no censure in his voice. In fact, if anything, Mycroft sounds impressed. But then again, loopholes are as much the province of his position as it is the pleasure of theirs.

“I merely put out word that the Prometheus drive contained some information that I knew the Fae would find perturbing.” His hand waves as he counters before John can inquire, “Simply a suggestion that we were planning on annexing part of their kingdom and gaining power over it. Clearly a violation of the very agreement we had both signed. The test was to see if they reached out to me personally to parlay and directly confront this rumor, or if they would send over an emissary to steal the drive. If they chose the latter, which they did, they were, in turn, breaking the treaty. Now, thanks to you, I found the opening in the agreement that allowed them to do so and we have arranged a new conference to discuss the terms of an amended agreement.”

John does not press the issue of what Mycroft considers 'harm', uncomfortable with the ramifications and personal issues he experienced at the hands of Aerlicon. Instead, he presses on. “And the third?”

“An assassination,” Mycroft notes simply. “In the end, the bait was true to its namesake. It was named the Prometheus drive in honor of the Titan who stole the secret knowledge of fire to offer it to humans. What better name to give a magical device designed for the encryption and protection of secret information? But what no one considers is Prometheus' punishment for stealing the secret of fire. Of course in this case we wanted something more permanent than an eagle tearing out someone's liver. We required annihilation. In this instance, the Prometheus drive was in fact a disguised transporter device. Once Zendithar had stolen it for its “fire”, as it were, and stripped its layers of protection, the device activated and transported him out of the comforts of Hell and into a prearranged location where I had a rather special welcome party awaiting him. Their orders were to kill on sight.” Mycroft flicks an imaginary bit of lint of his sleeve, looking unusually smug even for Mycroft.

John can't say he censures what Mycroft has done. His new position as a Fallen makes his morality rather dubious by heavenly standards. He has no problem whatsoever with the death and destruction of demons. Still, he can't let the opportunity for a barb to slip through his lips, his anger with what Mycroft has done to him still burning in his gut. “What, you didn't fancy a trip to Hell to get him yourself?”

“John, despite how often Sherlock might wish me to go to Hell, it is neither practical nor advisable. Zendithar would have had the home field advantage and with a demon as powerful as he was, we couldn't allow him the slightest advantage at all.”

“And what if things hadn't gone the way you wanted them to? You took a big risk, that someone else wouldn't get the Prometheus drive before his minions did. Someone else could have been killed instead, someone who didn't deserve it.”

“Ahhh, but you see doctor, the drive was never missing in the first place. Anthea had it the whole time. And, even if she had to give it up under a circumstance other than the one she was supposed to, no one would have come to any harm. Only Zendithar had the ability to unlock this particular Prometheus drive. It was linked to his magical signature. That was the key to opening it, though of course we put in some hurdles to make it seem more difficult for him to open than it really was. After all, we didn't want to tip him off that the drive was anything other than what it appeared to be. In the end his own avarice and conceit was his destruction.”

“Fine.” He's still not happy or comfortable with Mycroft's use and abuse of him, and the elephant in the room is just getting larger and larger as they draw close to the end of this story. Taking a deep breath, John jumps into the deep end of the pool.

“You said there were four problems.”

Once again, Mycroft's gaze sharpens, his head tilting to one side in a predatory way. “You, Dr. Watson. You are the fourth 'problem'.”

“Am I? Why am I a problem to you, Mycroft?” John asks warily, his gaze unwavering in the face of the those dark brown eyes that look at him with fascination and disturbing sort of hunger.

“Let us just say that I have some questions for you that I now require answers to, and that refusing said questions is not an option.”

Glancing at the wide open door to the hallway with nurses, patients and doctors walking by, John calmly asks, “Do you really think this is the sort of conversation we should be having here?” Of course, he is not actually concerned about humans overhearing their conversation. They can simply close the door and speak softly and no one would be the wiser. No, it is the fact that there is someone else in the room, someone who would not only believe their inevitable conversation, but likely take action upon it; the sort of action that could remove John from Sherlock's side. An action that could easily end this life that he is only just starting to unravel the secrets of.

With a roll of his shoulders, Mycroft strolls to the door and closes it. “There. Are you satisfied?

With a frustrated sigh, John replies, “Not in the slightest. Are you _quite_ sure there aren't other eyes and ears in the room?”

“Dr. Watson, I know for a fact that your Sight is close to, if not as good as, my own. Do _you_ See anything in here other than us?”

There is nothing that John can say to that without revealing himself to the Guardian Angel currently standing nearby, gazing out of the hospital room window, so he stares at Mycroft intently, willing him to understand.

Mycroft gives John an exasperated look before casting his gaze around the room, his eyes narrowing intently as he takes a moment to study everything before he turns back to John. “I See nothing here.” His smile is full of teeth and no more patience.

“I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that isn't good enough.”

John doesn't think he's seen Mycroft's face fall so dramatically since he was fourteen and Sherlock outdid him for the first time in a game of chess. It's almost comical.

His voice drops in timber. This is not the voice that he uses when he's trying to intimidate someone. This is the voice he uses when he plans on dispensing with someone. “Dr. Watson. You _really_ don't want me to take drastic measures, I assure you. But, if you do not answer my questions, I _will_.”

John juts out his chin belligerently and takes a deep breath in through his nose, gritting his teeth. “Mycroft, until you can ensure our privacy, our _complete_ privacy, I can assure _you_ that I have nothing to say.”

A queer look comes across Mycroft's features. The expression is so fleeting that John has no time to interpret it. Mycroft takes a deep breath and drops his head, his fists clenching and body tensing as if he were trying to rein himself in from doing something extraordinarily unacceptable. After a full minute every hair on John's body raises, as if he just touched a tesla coil. The sensation makes him jump and shiver. Mycroft lifts his head and offers John a cold smile. “Really, Dr. Watson, you underestimate me. Did you honestly think Sherlock is the only Holmes who knows how to work magic?”

For a moment John is stymied, staring at Mycroft whom he knows is a Sensitive, with no talent as an Adept. But he can't refute the strange magical tension in the air. “What have you done?”

The older Holmes takes pity on John and idly taps the tip of his umbrella on the hard linoleum floor, drawing John's attention to the innocuous object.

At first he sees nothing, just a simple umbrella. But then he realizes that there's something not quite right about it. Something is off. He stares harder, blinking until he notices the ever so faint motion on its surface. It looks like the fabric is shifting? No, not the fabric - something on the surface of it. Suddenly the answer clicks into place. Now it makes sense. Now he understands why Mycroft always carries an umbrella, even when the weather is pleasant. The object in his hand is so much more than it appears. Its power is well concealed. John doubts that anyone would realize what it was if they were not both a powerful Sensitive and looking for it, and certainly not when it was in its dormant state. The fabric is covered in spells. Even staring at it closely he can just barely make out the shifting and moving signs, symbols, and sigils. They are so thick on the fabric, overlaying each other so densely, that the umbrella looks pure black. Spells layered upon spells layered upon spells. Each, most likely, are accessible to Mycroft with a tap or a swish or a lazily drawn symbol on the ground at his feet. The only reason he can feel its magic now is because it’s been activated, and even then, he can not sense where the magic is actually coming from. It feels like it is coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“Let me reassure you. Whatever is in this room with us that you can see and I cannot, it will not pay any attention to our conversation from here on out. It's not that they can't hear us, it's just that what we're saying is of no consequence to them. Our words will be like white noise, the droning of bees, uninteresting and unworthy of their attention.”

This seems a dubious assertion, one that Mycroft certainly cannot prove if he cannot see the figure standing by the window. “If this room appears empty of threats to you, how can you possibly know that?”

Mycroft's face twists in irritation, as if he'd just been told he was a moron. “Fine, test it.”

Frowning, John purses his lips, trying to think of a way that he can test effectiveness of Mycroft's umbrella without actively alerting the other being in the room. He must choose his words carefully.

“You think that I'm the demon, Atheniel, come to steal Sherlock's soul.”

His eyes remain locked upon Mycroft's but his attention is fully elsewhere. Even though the Guardian angel would not be concerned for his charge's safety, since it is obvious to him that John is no demon, Atheniel would most definitely turn his head at the mention of his own name.

Atheniel, however, isn't paying the least bit of attention to either John or Mycroft. His gaze is focused on things beyond the window of the room, with no hint of reaction whatsoever to John's words. It would seem that Mycroft is, in fact, correct.

Unconsciously, his body relaxes back into the pillows supporting him as he breathes a sigh of relief. “How is this possible?”

Mycroft scoffs, “Please. I'm certainly not going to divulge secrets to an unknown quantity such as yourself.” Both hands come to rest upon the handle, fingers curling about it in a manner that is more suggestive of a holding a weapon than a mere umbrella. “So, Dr. Watson, is this sufficiently private for you or will I be required to resort to more drastic measures to get the answers that I seek?”

John has never seen anything like it. Never even _heard_ of anything like what he just witnessed. But there's no way that he cannot answer Mycroft. The truth will out. Anthea knows what she saw, they have likely already discerned what John is and are simply lacking details on the matter. He isn't certain what lengths Mycroft would actually go to, but in this human form, John is incapable of resisting drugs, torture, or magic. He bobs his head in assent.

Mycroft takes a breath, lifting the umbrella up to study the tip of it idly. “So it would seem that while you live within a mortal frame, you are something quite a bit more, yes? It's obvious that you're not a demon, as you have just claimed you are. You have always registered as completely human. There is, of course, the possibility of possession, but while you were unconscious we had some time to examine you and there were no telltale signs of possession. We did find, curiously enough, that despite all the wear and tear that it appears you have gone through in the span of your technical age, the cell structure of your body is unnaturally young. We estimate that your physical form has only been in existence for a few months. Really, you are quite the conundrum. Whatever you are, we have never seen the like of it before.”

“What about Anthea? She saw what happened.”

“I know what Anthea saw, what she believes you to be, but her report does not coincide with any other accounting and as such leaves us with more information, but no definitive answer. Her theory needs to corroborated before I am willing to accept it, since what she describes, what you seem to be, is impossible.”

“And what is that?”

“What you _appear_ to be and, in this moment are, is an ordinary human, with an extraordinary talent for Seeing. However, it would seem that on certain occasions, you cease to be a human altogether and become an Angel of the Christian god. Which we both know is quite impossible.”

“Well, best you reconfigure your current understanding of the Universe, then. I know where I came from, but I don’t have a clue as to the rest. As you say, I am impossible.”

One eyebrow arches in distrust. “How can you not know what you are?”

This is important. If he is to reveal himself, then John must make sure that Mycroft understands precisely where John stands and, more importantly, his intentions. He stares into Mycroft's eyes, his chin gesturing to the umbrella as he inquires, “Does that thing have a lie detector?” There is only the slightest narrowing of Mycroft's gaze before John pushes on.

“I am– was, Sherlock's guardian angel until the day I broke my troth and intervened on his behalf in order to save his life. I became Fallen. But, for some reason, I was spared by an unknown force, for an unknown purpose, if any.” John’s shoulders shrug. “All I know is that I’m human most of the time, but then at other times I am overtaken by my angelic powers. What that makes me now? Hell if I know. All that I do know is that I'm still tied to Sherlock and the only time my angelic powers are unlocked is when he is in mortal danger.”

Mycroft's face remains expressionless as he takes in the information, digesting it and, more than likely, trying to determine just how he can use John for his own purposes and what this miraculous turn of events might foretell of things to come.

“Remarkable. So if you are Sherlock's guardian angel–”

“ _Fallen_ guardian angel,” John clarifies.

“Yes, yes, fallen guardian angel, then that means you've been with Sherlock all of his life.”

“Of course. And, in a way, I've been with you for a fair amount of your life as well.”

That clearly wasn't something that Mycroft had taken into consideration and his eyes widen before narrowing at the revelation.

Nodding John counters, “Precisely. So you can see why I chose to hide the truth from you. I remember well how you had an affinity for collecting magical creatures - bending them to your will and desire through entrapment, subterfuge, tricks, and challenges - and I'm here to tell you now that I will not be one of your playthings or one of your magical minions.”

For a moment Mycroft looks discomfited, the same way a child does when you remind them that you saw them in diapers when they were younger. Clearly there were things that Mycroft did in his youth that he is not particularly proud of or wished to be witnessed and known. One hand covers his mouth in a loose fist as he coughs to clear his throat and cover the disquiet.

John narrows his eyes and bares his teeth as he warns the elder Holmes. “I will not be blackmailed or coerced by you. I will not let you use me, Mycroft, as you do the otherkind within your power.” His mouth shifts into an ironic smirk. “In truth, you can't use me. Right now, as far as I can tell, I have one purpose and one purpose only: to protect Sherlock. And nothing, _nothing_ , will stop me from doing that. I will die, whatever that means to me in this incarnation, before I allow Sherlock to come to any harm.”

Mycroft turns away for a moment, his shoulders shaking and John finds himself staring at the man's back with suspicion. Is he crying? No, that would be impossible. Mycroft doesn't cry. He hasn't shed a tear since he was 13 and Sherlock had broken his leg. But then the man turns around, a hand covering his mouth for a moment before his head tilts back and laughter escapes his lips, causing John to frown in irritation. “This isn't funny, Mycroft, I'm deadly serious!”

A hand waves in blithe apology, but a smile remains on Mycroft's lips after the rich chuckle has been released and, by the look in his eyes, he's well pleased with the situation at hand. “Yes, yes, of course you are. Well, this is all frightfully convenient, isn't it?”

“Convenient?”

“Indeed. You see, Dr. Watson, you are already bound to do the very thing that I would have asked of you in the first place. As you know, I worry about my brother constantly, but he has never accepted either my help or my protection. Indeed, should I extend myself to him, make any attempt to watch over him, it does nothing but spark a sense of rebellion in him. He will deliberately look for ways to block me and generally get himself into even more trouble than he usually does.”

Mycroft's grip on his umbrella has eased, as has his expression. “No matter what my brother might think of me or my intentions, I only wish the best for him. I want to do whatever I can to ensure that Sherlock is safe and has someone he can rely upon. And here you are, providing me with both requirements. I could ask for no better friend for my brother, and certainly no better guardian. I recognize, in a way that he does not fully realize, the inherent danger that comes with being as powerful as he is. Naturally I would prefer to keep him close for his own protection and my own peace of mind, but he will have none of it.”

“You forget that I know you, Mycroft. You can't convince me that your interest and concern for Sherlock is purely altruistic and born of brotherly love and compassion.”

Mycroft's nose wrinkles at the words 'love' and 'compassion', but he shakes his head. “Naturally, I would like Sherlock to join me in my work. He could be my greatest asset,” and then, as if hearing himself, Mycroft corrects, “this country's greatest asset, if he were willing to work with me instead of against me. But instead, he insists on playing detective rather than making any meaningful contribution.”

John opens his mouth to protest, but Mycroft cuts him off. “I'm not saying that Sherlock is wasting his time or neglecting things that need to be done. It's a question of scale. If he worked for me, for the MOD, he could be doing so much more to help people. His skill as an Adept, his ability to mix magic and technology is without equal. But no. He insists on 'working alone' and on doing everything himself.”

With a soft sigh, Mycroft takes a seat, leaning forward in an effort to appeal to John's sense of logic. “I'm sure I don't have to explain to you how difficult it would be for me, how dangerous it would be for the world, if someone or something were able to coerce Sherlock into doing their dirty work or find a way to control Sherlock against his will. Sherlock is a double-edged sword and my position is an unenviable one. He is my greatest weakness – a chink in my armor just waiting to be exploited by the right nemesis. But I have a responsibility to protect my country, the world, from supernatural threats, and with his wild nature, Sherlock could be easily turned toward darkness. Someday I may be forced to make a choice between my brother and my duty. Believe me when I tell you that I would do anything to ensure that I never have to make that decision.”

John doesn't like it, but he cannot deny the truth of Mycroft's words. He has no idea what he would do if Sherlock was somehow corrupted, if he started to do harm instead of good. Would he be compelled to continue to protect Sherlock as he currently seems to be? Or would he find himself turning against Sherlock, despite his feelings for him. Would he even be able to make that choice for himself, or would the same force that transforms him from human to angel be the one to make that decision for him? He doesn't want to agree with Mycroft, but he finds himself nodding in understanding at the same time that he silently curses this new and unconsidered weight that Mycroft has now burdened him with.

Folding his hands together atop the handle of his umbrella, Mycroft inclines his head toward John in a gesture of both respect and gratitude. “As such, it gives me great peace of mind, knowing that you are looking out for him.”

Neither of them speak of assurances that cannot be made. Neither wish to consider the possibility that what they want and what they must do may, at some point, be beyond their control. But John can make one promise at least. “No matter what, for as long as it's within my power to do so, I will stay with Sherlock. I will protect him in any way that I can, even at the cost of my own life.”

Mycroft's gaze has gone soft in a way that John hasn't seen since he was a boy, when Sherlock would sometimes just run at him and hug him without any other reason besides just loving his big brother. He never let Sherlock see his face, always schooling his expression and eventually extricating himself from the embrace with some sardonic comment. And, just as he did then, Mycroft wrestles the momentary lapse into submission, his features returning to their sharp and cool regard. But John knows the truth. No matter what he might say, no matter how much he might protest, John knows that Mycroft loves his brother more deeply than he even realizes.

“I cannot ask for anything more. But I do have another question to ask you.”

John can't help but smirk, his eyes casting heavenward. “Of course you do. Don't know if I'll have an answer for you or not, but shoot.”

“You have a soul. That is puzzling at best. How did you manage that?”

Touching his chest lightly with his middle finger, John rubs lightly against his sternum, a small smile touching his lips as he lifts his gaze to Mycroft and replies, “It was a gift, but it's mine now. It belongs to me.”

Mycroft's brow lifts, his lips twisting in doubt, but he doesn't push the matter. For now.

“I see. Well, there is one other thing to discuss before I allow you to see Sherlock.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. As I'm sure you know, there's only so much healing magic that can be done by any magically inclined being. We can certainly affect the healing process, speed it up, have it be seamless rather than leaving scarring or other damage, but it still takes time. Severe injuries cannot always be repaired and we most certainly cannot bring the dead back to life. At least, not without delving into the darker magics and even then, there is always a terrible price to be paid and success is not always guaranteed. As such, when Sherlock regained consciousness, he instantly knew that something dodgy was going on. After all, he was on the verge of dying and here he was, in seemingly perfect health. And then of course there was you.”

“Me? What about me?”

“Well, the first thing Sherlock asked about once he was awake was whether or not you were alive. A part of him was certain that you were dead and a part of him was hoping against hope that you might have survived. Naturally he was incredulous when I told him that you were not only alive, but well. He insisted on seeing you at once, to see the truth with his own eyes. He thought I was lying to spare him, or some such nonsense.”

“I see.” He knows what Sherlock saw when he faced Melmoth, how impossibly twisted and broken his body was. Logically, there is no way that John could have survived that kind of damage, let alone be completely healed save for a few aches and pains.

“You can see the dilemma that arose. With you healing yourself and Sherlock so completely, I have had to come up with some rather creative answers to my brother's demands and questions.”

Oddly Mycroft doesn't seem as perturbed by this situation as John expected him to be. Raising an eyebrow, he cannot help but ask. “What did you tell him?”

If Mycroft were a cat, John would have said that he didn't eat just a canary, but the whole flock.

“I told him that I had to call in a _very_ large favor in order to save both your lives and that now, he owes _me_ a very large favor.”

John's other eyebrow raises, as does his voice. “So you lied to your brother and extorted a favor from him in the process?”

“Of course I did. It's hard enough as it is to extract any sort of assistance from him. Besides, I think you know me well enough to realize that I would never let a little thing like fraternal relations get in the way of such an opportunity to blackmail my little brother.” Mycroft tilts his head, eyes narrowing with just a hint of a threat, his expression questioning. “Why? Would you rather I tell him the truth?”

John is silent for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Believe me, John, I fully understand why you did not confess the truth to either Sherlock or myself. You know me to be too Machiavellian, and Sherlock too unpredictable and impulsive, to trust either of us not to try and use your powers for our own means. I assure you I have no desire to reveal your secret to Sherlock. If he had even so much as an inkling that you are something other than who you are, and that I knew about it before he did? It's uncertain which of us he would be more furious with – me or himself. Beyond that, I fear that the knowledge that he actually has a Guardian angel by his side would make him rather more reckless than he already is, and that would be a bit more than the entire British government would be able to handle, I'm afraid.”

There is a soft tap at the door before it opens, Anthea smoothly slipping through the small gap. “Excuse the interruption, but your brother is causing something of a disturbance and the hospital staff is about to call the police. How would you like me to proceed?”

With a roll of his eyes, Mycroft sighs. “Never mind, Anthea, I shall attend to this myself. Give us a moment please” 

She dips her head demurely, replying, “Of course, sir,” before taking her leave.

Turning back to John, Mycroft lifts his umbrella, peering at the tip of it. “Before I leave you, Dr. Watson, I have one last question for you.”

A smirk quirks John’s lips. “Only one?”

“Only one,” Mycroft confirms with a nod and a supercilious smile. “For now.” At John’s inquiring expression, Mycroft swings the tip of his umbrella about the room. “What is it in here that you see and that I do not?”

John chuckles and shakes his head. “Can’t you guess?”

Mycroft sniffs, as if John had just asked him if he tap dances naked atop the Queen Victoria Memorial. “I never guess.”

“Hmmmmm, family trait, that.” John waits a moment longer, until Mycroft is visibly brimming with impatience before he nods his head to the man’s left side. “Your guardian angel, what else?”

Mycroft has the good sense not to look to his left, but his expression is, in a word, put out. It’s not every day he learns that someone has better Sight than he does, after all. Still, stiff upper lip and all that, Mycroft has the grace to accept this slight defeat. He taps his umbrella on the ground and instantly the strange feeling around them dissipates; the spell has been broken.

Opening the door, he allows Anthea to enter before nodding toward John. “It was good talking to you, Dr. Watson. Again, my thanks.”

John nods and watches as Mycroft departs, the door shutting softly behind him. Instead of following her employer, Anthea takes a few steps further into the room. John's gaze drops to her hands, frowning as he espies the bandages wrapped around them. “Are you alright?”

A small crease forms between her eyes as she puzzles over the question before lifting her hands up. “Ah, you mean these? I'm fine, Dr. Watson. The bandages are more for the comfort of your kind than any requirement of my own. The burns are healing but apparently humans find third degree burns to be disturbing to look at. Mycroft requested that I keep them wrapped until they are more presentable.”

“Dr. Watson? I thought we were on a first name basis now?”

Staring at him with cat-like eyes, Anthea queries, “What you makes you think that?”

“Well, possibly the fact that you were screaming my name at the warehouse.” Wait, is she blushing? John leans forward to get a better look, but Anthea lowers her head, her hair conveniently hiding her face. “That was an abnormality born out of a difficult and complicated situation.” Her shoulders lift before she looks up again. If there was a hint of red in her cheeks, it is gone now. She tilts her head, eyes flickering about the room before turning back to John. “Am I correct?”

There is no question about what she is asking, and now that Mycroft has departed, there is no guardian angel in the room to overhear them. “In a manner of speaking, yes, though it's a little more complicated than that and there are still many unanswered questions. Although I am Fallen, I've been allowed to continue my life for reasons that are unknown. As far as any of us can understand, I'm a human Sensitive most of the time, but whenever Sherlock's life is in danger, I regain the powers that I once had, though clearly they have been altered by the change. My wings and my sword, as I'm sure you noticed, are not the pure white they once were.”

She nods once, thoughtful as she folds her hands. “Interesting. It would seem that we have something in common after all then. We are both hybrids, neither one thing or another, but something in-between two shores.”

The two of them share a small, secretive smile before her expression sobers again.

“I wish to apologize to you, Dr. Watson. While I was assigned to gather intel on you it was also my duty to keep you from harm. Yet I was also entrusted with the duty to make sure the Prometheus drive was delivered to the correct target. I could not yield it up too readily. My character is known and to sacrifice such a valuable object without proper persuasion would have cast suspicion on the veracity of the drive, which could have resulted in the failure of the mission. My two missions had a conflict of interest, namely you.”

She swallows and her expression falls. John has seen Anthea look at him him in all different manners - haughty, superior, dismissive, professional, disinterested, and focused - but he has never seen her look regretful before now. “I wanted to tell you that I respect you, Dr. Watson. Not just what because of what you are capable of, but as an individual. It was my duty to spy on you and in doing so, your true nature was revealed to me.”

John's eyebrows rise up as he asks, “What, even before the warehouse?” If she suspected before then, why didn't she report to Mycroft her suspicions? Why didn't she say something?

Her lips curl ever so slightly at the corners, her head tilting in concession as she echoes his earlier words. “In a manner of speaking, though not in the manner you think. What I witnessed is that you are a man of your word. You are a good man, a skilled fighter, and a kind healer. You are an honorable man, brave and willing to give your life for the greater good and for those whom you call friend.” Her pale green regard bores into him with bright intensity and unusual honesty for one of the Fae. “I do not have friends. Nor do I expect you to be one to me after what I have done to you. But, I wanted you to know, for whatever it may be worth, that I respect you and would call you friend if it was in my power to do so, Dr. Watson.”

John studies the changeling before him quietly for a moment, then smiles at her warmly.

“Anthea, call me John. My friends call me John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment! They mean the world to me! :D


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